the mother and mummy the embalmed
Egyptian soul endures.
Time and sophistication have not erased it,
much more so when mummy
the mother abides in time, well-preserved,
cherished, honoured and full of soul.
We never grew out of calling her mummy.
Even now after she's gone...
Gone.
Sometimes you wonder:
Is that it? Is that all there is to it?
Yes, it is.
This is something grave philosophies
and pollyanna religions
do not prepare you for.
For we all measure our time
against the span of our parents' lives,
still more so against the parent
who lives longer, long.
Is that it? Is that all there is to it?
Yes, it is.
This is something grave philosophies
and pollyanna religions
do not prepare you for.
For we all measure our time
against the span of our parents' lives,
still more so against the parent
who lives longer, long.
She left in her 90th year,
yet everything looks foreshortened
and brief.
At last, sooner or later,
time's arrow pierces every heart:
in one fell swoop Thanatos
eases out Eros;
the wrecking ball of Earth
smashes us against the bosom
of nothingness and nonexistence.
My fascination with Allan Ginsberg's
Kaddish endures, the poet's song
for his late-lamented mother.
But where Naomi Ginsberg was the very
sea itself, stormy and calm by turns,
Sade Oriku was at once
an oasis and a dune, harbour
and haven for us all.
You would think the words,
'Oh you look like your mother'
feel less bemusing now.
They do not, not when mirror
and reflex tell you otherwise.
Well, aren't we all flickering shadows
of the dead?
Aren't we guttering candles
planted on shrines to the dead?
Aren't we merely one of
the multifarious mutations of evolution?
But here we shall stay with things
sub-specie humanitatis...
Her anima enriches me, stuff
from which my marrow was made.
Her humane gene endures
but the meme of Christianity
that was foisted on her foreparents
has gone awol in me.
I recall her heartfelt Abrahamic prayers...
My forced, knowing, bad-faith 'amen'
now ring hollow.
But that was duty, filial duty,
and she knew - the soul of kindness
and care, Mother.
We still call her mummy
even though she's gone,
even though in her last
testament and autobiography,
she mutes mummy, calls herself Mama.
Isn't Mama better, sturdier, realer,
solemner and mother-earthy?
Mama, you're forever
mummified in our hearts.
yet everything looks foreshortened
and brief.
At last, sooner or later,
time's arrow pierces every heart:
in one fell swoop Thanatos
eases out Eros;
the wrecking ball of Earth
smashes us against the bosom
of nothingness and nonexistence.
My fascination with Allan Ginsberg's
Kaddish endures, the poet's song
for his late-lamented mother.
But where Naomi Ginsberg was the very
sea itself, stormy and calm by turns,
Sade Oriku was at once
an oasis and a dune, harbour
and haven for us all.
You would think the words,
'Oh you look like your mother'
feel less bemusing now.
They do not, not when mirror
and reflex tell you otherwise.
Well, aren't we all flickering shadows
of the dead?
Aren't we guttering candles
planted on shrines to the dead?
Aren't we merely one of
the multifarious mutations of evolution?
But here we shall stay with things
sub-specie humanitatis...
Her anima enriches me, stuff
from which my marrow was made.
Her humane gene endures
but the meme of Christianity
that was foisted on her foreparents
has gone awol in me.
I recall her heartfelt Abrahamic prayers...
My forced, knowing, bad-faith 'amen'
now ring hollow.
But that was duty, filial duty,
and she knew - the soul of kindness
and care, Mother.
We still call her mummy
even though she's gone,
even though in her last
testament and autobiography,
she mutes mummy, calls herself Mama.
Isn't Mama better, sturdier, realer,
solemner and mother-earthy?
Mama, you're forever
mummified in our hearts.
