First musings on a poem about motherly story-telling.
A pox on this time of year and its wearisome germs! I’ve been all sickly and sniffly and snuffling and rubbish all weekend – how boring. When we’re all downloaded into a computer chip this won’t happen…
But otherwise all is well. A fine weekend was spent in the new Bristol residence of my beau, and I stumbled through my day at work aided by a variety of symptom-suppressing anti-cold products.
I thought I should keep in the habit of updating this ‘ere blog by putting up any half-worked up writing I saw fit. After my holiday at my Mum’s house in France, I thought I’d like to write something to commemorate and explore her extraordinary ability to archive her life by talking to you about it – by chatting and telling ‘stories’ of a sort. At a first attempt, I wrote this:
So anyway Mum tells stories (Did I tell you about that?) Well, not so much stories as Many-tiered pockets of memory Which might connect by key-word Or by phrase or by person or by – Which reminds me, did I tell you about – You know, do you remember?- Mum’s stories – well anyway They diverge and and shoot-off Like a vegetable patch in glut Spilling out into space, sprouting Excessively and blending themselves Into soup and then pouring out from her As these stories, anyway, of Others, of older brothers, of failed fathers, Of mortal bother, of soap-style lather whose suds Runneth over into something which nearly doesn’t resemble A story at all (Did I tell you about that?) Oh I’m sorry. So Anyway.
That’s it for now – it’ll need refining, but not too much (for that is surely the point)…
Off to bed to try and get well again, for there is SO much to do.