I got you in the shower,
lathering your huddled
body, soaping, washing
your private parts, in a
hiss of steam, as if the
snake of grief raised
hooded head to strike;
and you wept, while
I washed; not knowing
what else could be
done but to clean the
physical, as the mental
grew in stinking mould,
and the heart hollowed
in your distress and fear;
so did the daughter play
attendant on this tragic
piece of theatre, of
life in all of its cruel
being- as if mere soap
and flannel, could
wash away what was;
remove the awful and
looming reality, that
you were alone, and
there was no-one else
to take his place, to
hold you up; and the
arms of a child, while
willing, would always
be too frightened frail
to soothe the pain.
So, I washed, at all that
you were and all he had
known, achieving little
but baptismal flesh.
https://dversepoets.com/2018/11/15/open-link-night-232/
lathering your huddled
body, soaping, washing
your private parts, in a
hiss of steam, as if the
snake of grief raised
hooded head to strike;
and you wept, while
I washed; not knowing
what else could be
done but to clean the
physical, as the mental
grew in stinking mould,
and the heart hollowed
in your distress and fear;
so did the daughter play
attendant on this tragic
piece of theatre, of
life in all of its cruel
being- as if mere soap
and flannel, could
wash away what was;
remove the awful and
looming reality, that
you were alone, and
there was no-one else
to take his place, to
hold you up; and the
arms of a child, while
willing, would always
be too frightened frail
to soothe the pain.
So, I washed, at all that
you were and all he had
known, achieving little
but baptismal flesh.
https://dversepoets.com/2018/11/15/open-link-night-232/
This reminded me of my mother, whose answer for anything was a bath. The rituals we perform when we're feeling inadequate.
ReplyDeleteA powerfully intense poem. ...achieving little but baptismal flesh.
ReplyDeleteA very sad poem, the rituals we observe striving to reach normalcy
ReplyDeleteI like this description of grief: "snake of grief raised
ReplyDeletehooded head to strike" And the baptismal flesh at the end.
Powerful engaging writing and such a sad scene. Reminded me of caring for my elderly mum. When someone can't do for themselves, and the doing means so much more than just the practicalities of soap and water.
ReplyDeleteMy mother had a nervous breakdown six months after my father died. She came to stay with us. Getting her out of bed was hard enough and washed even more so. :(
DeletePowerful. But perhaps not everything can be suds away... potent write... ;-)
ReplyDelete...rob from Image & Verse
Lost in Azure
Oh, Roz, this cut right into me. I was in the same situation with my sweet father who just looked at me with his big brown eyes and said, "I can't believe this is happening." This scene has been a huge part of my nursing career, of course, but it really hits you when it is your own. The way you have expressed it here is so beautifully intense and painful. Wish I had written it, to be honest. Bless you. Posting using my defunct google account.
ReplyDeleteThanks Victoria. Mum was 57 at the time and I was 30. It was the second breakdown she had had - the first when I was nine.
DeleteThis is powerfully written and stabs right into my heart with that last stanza. It is hard to handle grief over the death of the loved ones, and perhaps the rituals of washing would help in some way.
ReplyDeletesometimes when you feel like you want to fall apart, going through the motions is grounding enough to keep you together. your poem has that sense of desperation to it. you captured it well
ReplyDeleteI often think of how it will feel the day I cannot wash myself... somehow I think I would prefer a machine doing it... I don't want a stranger to do it, I don't want to burden my close ones with my flesh.
ReplyDeleteThe thing about life is that often what we THINK we might want or do, doesn't work if we actually experience what it is we thought about.
DeleteThere is something spiritual, in the cleansing of the body, both physical and emotional. Too often, I find myself, within the bathtub, trying to erase the abusive past with hot water and soap. Not sure, how I would react, if i found myself, at the tender mercies of a love one, or a total stranger. The process of rebuilding oneself, after a nervous breakdown, is a long and painful journey to walk. Having done so, after my mom's rejection of me, after outing myself to her, as her trans-lesbian daughter. Eventually costing me, my apartment and job. Thank you, for writing about difficult subject, like this.
ReplyDeleteThanks for your heartfelt response. I think poetry can be a balm to salve some wounds.
DeleteThere is so much loving, grief, and balm to be able to care for a loved one. It really really really sucks (scuze my language) to lose your independence, we all need help at some point. I found the mounds of detail really set the scene and opened up the emotions of this tender scene
ReplyDeleteThis took me back to a scene with my own mother - just a small part of the end of her life. I thought I was over that, but this is oh, so heart-wrenching.
ReplyDelete