I can’t stop think about the baby
and the poor sad mother.
One lies in a grave
the other holds onto the memory,
and will carry the sadness
for the rest of her life.
It never got to know life,
this poor little baby,
and left such sadness
in the heart of its mother,
staying in her memory
until she finds her own grave
She might not visit the grave
everyday of her life,
might hide from the memory
of her beautiful baby,
but she will always be a mother,
and will always have the sadness.
There is no sort of sadness,
nothing so grave,
as to be the mother
of a child with no life.
Never smelling your baby,
never having that memory.
If it could all be erased from her memory,
if she could be absolved of sadness,
if she could forget her little baby
lying in its little grave,
would it improve her life,
and would she still be a mother?
It is the right of the mother
to hold onto the memory
for the rest of her life,
battling against the sadness
always dressing the grave,
never dressing the baby.
I must stop thinking of mothers and their sadness,
must let the memory go to its grave.
It should not last longer than the life of the baby.
A daily prompt encouraged me to post this poem here. The prompt was was asking about what had made me cry recently.
I had visited an art exhibition by a woman named Marie Brett, which presented pictures of items which mothers used as keepsakes to recall a child that had died, either before it was born, during child birth, or very soon after the child was born. Accompanying these photographs was an audio in which the Mother was interviewed and spoke about her experience of losing a child. There were about twelve 2-5 minute recordings in the exhibition, and after hearing the first three, I reckoned it wasn’t going to get much more cheery. I thought about leaving, it is a very scary and heavy subject, the death of a child. I could feel myself getting ready to cry many times, but I decided to stay, to experience this piece of work that Annette Breen presented so wonderfully.
Seperately to this experience I had been learning about the sestina, a calculated form of poem which follows a strict(ish) form. I hoped that the poem would elicit the same power that the original exhibition had instilled in me, but my skills are not up to the standard.
A toff of my hat to Ms.Brett, and all of my love to the Mothers.