Taking Edith home on Boxing Day

[wystan1000]

All through Christmas her lips sharp
over the Daily Mail, dry
of refused, sweet sherry.
And it was: “These days,”
it’s all just take,
take, take,” and, “no one knows me
in the town no more,”
As our saucepans simmered
breathed spiced smells, cabbage,
sprouts, kitchen steam and sweat.
And the husks of bright paper
filled the floors.

Now, she holds boxed-up gifts
in her passenger's lap; the flat
tombola kind: hanky set,
stationery, Yardley
talc. We’ve made little purchase
on her wants.
The aghast, bare shapes
of elms rush by
and raven-crews sweep
the pink earth
for mine-bugs.

Her home, and
Dad gone to open gates.
The door slams, engine fan drones
on middle G for twenty seconds, groans
down.
Alone, history riddles her again:

Jim
their holidays in France,
gloved hands
on the wheel;
administering a border,
sweet Williams, stocks.
His hands on her.
The smell of his pipe,
greasy tweed, molasses-
sweet. They meet and marry over
and over, two gymnasts on a zoetrope.

And though he’s dead these past ten years
she could walk grief-hazed
over a headland
as soon as going in the lounge,
if she were a stronger woman.

A slow progress to the house
she almost treads a homemade candle
with a scrawl-note from Kath’s kid next door.
Dad hands it her, pressing hope.

Yet, when she dies they’ll find it
with their haul, unopened
in tall boy drawer
shut up in her room.

[jdeirmend]

All through Christmas her lips sharp
over the Daily Mail, dry
of refused, sweet sherry.
And it was: “These days,”
it’s all just take,
take, take,” and, “no one knows me
in the town no more,”
As our saucepans simmered
breathed spiced smells, cabbage,
sprouts, kitchen steam and sweat.
And the husks of bright paper
filled the floors.

Now, she holds boxed-up gifts
in her passenger's lap; the flat
tombola kind: hanky set,
stationery, Yardley
talc. We’ve made little purchase
on her wants.
The aghast, bare shapes
of elms rush by
and raven-crews sweep
the pink earth
for mine-bugs.

Her home, and
Dad gone to open gates.
The door slams, engine fan drones
on middle G for twenty seconds, groans
down.
Alone, history riddles her again:

Jim
their holidays in France,
gloved hands
on the wheel;
administering a border,
sweet Williams, stocks.
His hands on her.
The smell of his pipe,
greasy tweed, molasses-
sweet. They meet and marry over
and over, two gymnasts on a zoetrope.

And though he’s dead these past ten years
she could walk grief-hazed
over a headland
as soon as going in the lounge,
if she were a stronger woman.

A slow progress to the house
she almost treads a homemade candle
with a scrawl-note from Kath’s kid next door.
Dad hands it her, pressing hope.

Yet, when she dies they’ll find it
with their haul, unopened
in tall boy drawer
shut up in her room.

Thanks for the read. There are some very powerful images that are put together in a compelling, fashionable way in some stanzas, but on the whole, the poem paints a scene that is extremely fragmentary and befuddling. If there is an intelligible theme here besides the fragmentary nature of human experience, it is eluding me. To my mind, this absence negates the humanity of the human principle whose moments are being described. Others will perhaps disagree.

[jdvanwijk]

Overall I really enjoyed your poem. I think you succeeded to write a poem with "heart" (sorry for the cliché) without being cloying, and that's not an easy thing to do. My interpretation of the poem would be that this is about the last day of an old woman, who is brought home by her children or family from the hospital/nursing home to die. The poem seems to describe the rituals of everyday life, but in a meaningful, 'hypersensitive' way, the way someone who is about to die would perceive it.

My main problem with the poem is that I found some of the images overly cryptic (I have noted them in my feedback) but this is personal, and other readers may think differently.

All through Christmas her lips sharp
over the Daily Mail, dry
of refused, sweet sherry. Refused I found intriguing: was it refused to her in the hospital/nursing home?
And it was: “These days,”
it’s all just take,
take, take,” and, “no one knows me
in the town no more,”
As our saucepans simmered
breathed spiced smells, cabbage,
sprouts, kitchen steam and sweat.
And the husks of bright paper
filled the floors.

Now, she holds boxed-up gifts Excellent transition.
in her passenger's lap; the flat
tombola kind: hanky set,
stationery, Yardley
talc. We’ve made little purchase
on her wants.
The aghast, bare shapes
of elms rush by
and raven-crews sweep
the pink earth
for mine-bugs. I couldn't really make sense of the last five lines and they felt a bit unnecessary for the whole.

Her home, and
Dad gone to open gates.
The door slams, engine fan drones
on middle G for twenty seconds, groans Really liked the "musical" element connected to the sound of the fan drone.
down.
Alone, history riddles her again:

Jim
their holidays in France,
gloved hands
on the wheel;
administering a border,
sweet Williams, stocks.
His hands on her.
The smell of his pipe,
greasy tweed, molasses-
sweet. They meet and marry over
and over, two gymnasts on a zoetrope. This last sentence I didn't fully understand but somehow felt very expressive: excellent!

And though he’s dead these past ten years This line feels a bit unnecessary and unwieldy.
she could walk grief-hazed
over a headland
as soon as going in the lounge,This line and the one that came before are a bit too cryptic for me.
if she were a stronger woman.

A slow progress to the house
she almost treads a homemade candle
with a scrawl-note from Kath’s kid next door.
Dad hands it her, pressing hope. Pressing hope is one of the only phrases in your poem that feel clichéd. Maybe try to describe this particular hope without naming it.

Yet, when she dies they’ll find it
with their haul, unopened
in tall boy drawer
shut up in her room.

[trophos]

Great title - really caught my eye and interest. The poem has some great imagery and - while it is a bit fragmented, as others have noted - it leaves me feeling like I have a pretty strong sense of the woman - and of how the narrator feels about her. A lot of great stuff in here - some really fresh imagery, good attention to sound and rhythm that does a lot of work in places, and some fantastic economy - few words doing a ton of work. Specific notes below.

All through Christmas her lips sharp --- sharp as verb? It took me a couple of reads to land on that reading, but I quite like it. It might be easier to see if you moved the enjambment back - ended the first line on lips, opened the second with sharp - especially because the second line closes with dry, an adjective, which kind of makes you want to see sharp as an adj. too. And if you want sharp taken as an adj I'd add a verb in there - maybe a weak one like were. Or leave it ambiguous, maybe it's more fun that way.
over the Daily Mail, dry
of refused, sweet sherry. --- I like the emphasis on the absence of sherry. Actually, I love the economy of the first three lines - I know so much about this woman by knowing that she sharps over the paper at Christmas and turns down sherry!
And it was: “These days,”
it’s all just take,
take, take,” and, “no one knows me
in the town no more,” --- the quotes aren't working for me - in part the line breaks seem a bit haphazard - maybe they could be set off by indents?
As our saucepans simmered --- why the capital A?
breathed spiced smells, cabbage,
sprouts, kitchen steam and sweat. --- for the sound, I'd switch cabbage and sprouts - I like the rhythm and consonance better that way
And the husks of bright paper
filled the floors. --- again, excellent economy - the food on the stove and the discarded paper sets a very clear scene and mood

Now, she holds boxed-up gifts
in her passenger's lap; the flat --- 'passenger's lap' threw me - do you mean her lap, and she's a passenger? I was trying to figure out why she had a passenger, and why she was holding gifts in his lap... I don't love the semicolon there either
tombola kind: hanky set,
stationery, Yardley --- there may be nothing iconic enough to do it easily, but I wonder if you could specify the hanky and paper more to match the great precision of the Yardley talc
talc. We’ve made little purchase --- nice use of purchase here, echoing the purchased gifts but of course meaning something entirely different
on her wants.
The aghast, bare shapes --- I paused over aghast, I wasn't sure I liked it for the bare elms, then I enjoyed how surprising it is. It's such a strong word with so much emotional punch, though - it's a bit jarring
of elms rush by
and raven-crews sweep --- I don't know what raven-crews means, I assume the birds?
the pink earth --- pink earth, so unusual. Maybe you could add in more color earlier in the poem - white elms, red paper, white hankies embroidered with green? This stanza in general feels less tight and precise than the first, color details might be one way to up the specificity in here
for mine-bugs.

Her home, and
Dad gone to open gates.
The door slams, engine fan drones
on middle G for twenty seconds, groans
down. --- the enjambment here is a little odd - I get keeping drones and groans for the rhyme, I don't know that down is adding much. Without it you also get the extra kind of echo with drones -> groans -> alone
Alone, history riddles her again:

Jim --- no comma here? why not?
their holidays in France,
gloved hands
on the wheel;
administering a border, --- I don't actually know what this means, but I like the sound
sweet Williams, stocks.
His hands on her.
The smell of his pipe,
greasy tweed, molasses- --- can tweed be greasy? They seem mutually exclusive somehow
sweet. They meet and marry over --- I'm mixed on the repetition of line-initial sweet.
and over, two gymnasts on a zoetrope. --- fantastic image, and - again - does so much work so very economically, and the image conveys a lot of emotion so effortlessly. Really nice.

And though he’s dead these past ten years
she could walk grief-hazed
over a headland
as soon as going in the lounge,
if she were a stronger woman. --- I enjoy this image enormously - grief-hazed over a headland - but I can't really tell what's going on in this stanza. Dropping or changing the last two lines would help, since the first three are effective at conveying character and emotion.

A slow progress to the house
she almost treads a homemade candle
with a scrawl-note from Kath’s kid next door.
Dad hands it her, pressing hope. --- this stanza isn't working for me. Partly it's the sudden informality - Kath's kid next door - that seems out of step with the rest of the language, partly I can't tell what's going on, so it's confusing. The candle seems kind of random and distracting, and I'm not sure what you're doing with pressing hope - Dad pressing the note into her hand like hope?

Yet, when she dies they’ll find it [--- total nit-picky pet peeve, sorry: I don't like a comma after yet]
with their haul, unopened
in tall boy drawer --- I don't know what a tall boy drawer is, or why it doesn't need an article. This doesn't bother me, by the way, and I certainly don't think it's a problem, just letting you know what might not land.
shut up in her room. --- there's really a lot of potential in this narrative, especially ending on the last two vignettes - getting the item, finding it stored away unopened after her death - but it's not yet supported or brought out. Especially compared to the first two, the last two stanzas still feel very raw and underdone. Like I said at the start of this post, I don't mind a fragmented narrative at all, and actually I think a sense of disjointedness, if it matches the mood of the poem overall, can do a lot of work. You might have that kind of poem here, so it might not want to be shaped into a coherent, connected narrative, but I think you want more clarity here.

I hope you can tell by my comments how much I enjoyed and admire this poem, thanks for sharing it.