My mother’s chrysanthemum

[just mercedes]

 
 
 

 
 

The flowers came early this year, long before
Mothers Day. I'd wondered if the plant was
root-bound, after eight years, whether the
discoloured foliage implied it too withered. 
I fed it a seaweed compound, hoping for
revival. I’d bring it to the Nursing Home
each year, in flower, and take it away when
the flowers turned that bruised shade.

It’s strange how many colour changes white
flowers go through. At first, when the green
swelling buds burst, the petals show, crammed
and standing upright, tiny yellow filaments.
As they spread apart, lie flat, the colour fades.
When the bloom fully opens, only the centre
retains a golden shade. The rest of the bloom
is as white as hospital sheets. I’d bring you 
the pot on Mothers Day.

Later, at the end of May, even the centre is white,
momentarily. Nothing stays the same.
A purple flush begins on the outside petals, 
spreads its tinge through all the pristine 
whiteness as the flower slowly dies.
That’s the moment to pick the bloom, you said, 
set it in a pot, to take root. This makes the plant
immortal. 

I keep it by my back door. They inspire Chinese
art, poetry, they bring prosperity to the house.
Or is it luck?
 
Most of the year it’s a nondescript twiggy shrub,
but during two months of autumn it’s a bouquet
that glows in the twilight like a small beacon, a
candle-light welcome, a reminder of you. The way
you greeted me when I phoned.

Last summer, when men came to pump out
the septic tank, one of them, made clumsy
by his waders, knocked the pot over. It didn’t
break, but my pulse jumped. Just one small 
branch crushed. I snipped it off, recalling
how I’d trimmed your toenails, when once 
you’d done mine. How we cut or pluck pieces 
off ourselves: nails, hair, eyebrows. Children.

And of how things have to die, to complete
the cycle. Rot is a crucial part of the process.
When you were dying, the smell of death
filled the room. The nurses were used to it,
I guess. I smelled it for the first time. It caught 
in my throat, brought moisture to my eyes.


Your eyes were half-closed, as if you were
thinking deeply. Your breath a struggle. 
It took longer than I expected. You worked
hard at it. That surprised me, too. Did you 
fight to hold on, or to let go?


 
 

[67eager]

 
 
 On the whole, I really enjoy this poem. While the comparison between mortality and flowers is a classical poetic idea, you manage to present it in an original way, with your near forensic descriptions of the flower. The prose-like style of writing, coupled with the frequent enjambements make for a very lovely poem. If there were one suggestion that I would make, it would be to make use of more literary techniques to strengthen the image which you are trying to convey

 
 

The flowers came early this year, long before
Mothers Day. I'd wondered if the plant was
root-bound, after eight years, whether the
discoloured foliage implied it too withered. 
I fed it a seaweed compound, hoping for
revival. I’d bring it to the Nursing Home
each year, in flower, and take it away when
the flowers turned that bruised shade.

It’s strange how many colour changes white
flowers go through. At first, when the green
swelling buds burst, the petals show, crammed
and standing upright, tiny yellow filaments.
As they spread apart, lie flat, the colour fades.
When the bloom fully opens, only the centre
retains a golden shade. The rest of the bloom
is as white as hospital sheets. I’d bring you 
the pot on Mothers Day.

Later, at the end of May, even the centre is white,
momentarily. Nothing stays the same.
A purple flush begins on the outside petals, 
spreads its tinge through all the pristine 
whiteness as the flower slowly dies.
That’s the moment to pick the bloom, you said, 
set it in a pot, to take root. This makes the plant
immortal. 

I keep it by my back door. They inspire Chinese
art, poetry, they bring prosperity to the house.
Or is it luck?
 
Most of the year it’s a nondescript twiggy shrub,
but during two months of autumn it’s a bouquet
that glows in the twilight like a small beacon, a
candle-light welcome, a reminder of you. The way
you greeted me when I phoned.

Last summer, when men came to pump out
the septic tank, one of them, made clumsy
by his waders, knocked the pot over. It didn’t
break, but my pulse jumped. Just one small 
branch crushed. I snipped it off, recalling
how I’d trimmed your toenails, when once 
you’d done mine. How we cut or pluck pieces 
off ourselves: nails, hair, eyebrows. Children.

And of how things have to die, to complete
the cycle. Rot is a crucial part of the process.
When you were dying, the smell of death
filled the room. The nurses were used to it,
I guess. I smelled it for the first time. It caught 
in my throat, brought moisture to my eyes.


Your eyes were half-closed, as if you were
thinking deeply. Your breath a struggle. 
It took longer than I expected. You worked
hard at it. That surprised me, too. Did you 
fight to hold on, or to let go?


 
 

[ellajam]

A beautiful read this mother's day morning here. I especially like the snipping and trimming and the ending. It's such a big question, wondering about those last thoughts, that once in a lifetime experience.

Thanks for posting it, lovely.

[Leanne]

How we cut or pluck pieces
off ourselves: nails, hair, eyebrows. Children.

Fuck.

That uncomfortable tension present in the mother/daughter bond is strongly realised in this poem, and that last stanza -- just fuck.  My glasses are foggy.

[billy]

i gave this a like on facebook with any comment or feedback
same here

likey likey x

 
 
 

 
 

The flowers came early this year, long before
Mothers Day. I'd wondered if the plant was
root-bound, after eight years, whether the
discoloured foliage implied it too withered. 
I fed it a seaweed compound, hoping for
revival. I’d bring it to the Nursing Home
each year, in flower, and take it away when
the flowers turned that bruised shade.

It’s strange how many colour changes white
flowers go through. At first, when the green
swelling buds burst, the petals show, crammed
and standing upright, tiny yellow filaments.
As they spread apart, lie flat, the colour fades.
When the bloom fully opens, only the centre
retains a golden shade. The rest of the bloom
is as white as hospital sheets. I’d bring you 
the pot on Mothers Day.

Later, at the end of May, even the centre is white,
momentarily. Nothing stays the same.
A purple flush begins on the outside petals, 
spreads its tinge through all the pristine 
whiteness as the flower slowly dies.
That’s the moment to pick the bloom, you said, 
set it in a pot, to take root. This makes the plant
immortal. 

I keep it by my back door. They inspire Chinese
art, poetry, they bring prosperity to the house.
Or is it luck?
 
Most of the year it’s a nondescript twiggy shrub,
but during two months of autumn it’s a bouquet
that glows in the twilight like a small beacon, a
candle-light welcome, a reminder of you. The way
you greeted me when I phoned.

Last summer, when men came to pump out
the septic tank, one of them, made clumsy
by his waders, knocked the pot over. It didn’t
break, but my pulse jumped. Just one small 
branch crushed. I snipped it off, recalling
how I’d trimmed your toenails, when once 
you’d done mine. How we cut or pluck pieces 
off ourselves: nails, hair, eyebrows. Children.

And of how things have to die, to complete
the cycle. Rot is a crucial part of the process.
When you were dying, the smell of death
filled the room. The nurses were used to it,
I guess. I smelled it for the first time. It caught 
in my throat, brought moisture to my eyes.


Your eyes were half-closed, as if you were
thinking deeply. Your breath a struggle. 
It took longer than I expected. You worked
hard at it. That surprised me, too. Did you 
fight to hold on, or to let go?


 
 

[rayheinrich]

uh... jeez... just stands there naked

[just mercedes]

Thanks everyone.

[Keith]

I missed this one, glad I caught up with it, such fresh delightful and heartfelt comparisons, I enjoyed the insight into the relationship but mostly how you weave everything into the flowers, its like a well dressing for mother.