Am I to read about six more poems?
I've written a bunch of poems about my family,
and I'd like to read three of those.
Four, and then two to finish.
Right, four poems.
OK, here's a poem called "On a Photograph of My Mother."
I never wrote about it, till recently.
I wrote about my father, who's been dead a long time.
Now, it's my mom's turn to have poems.
I just sent it to her.
I don't know what she thinks.
It's in three parts, short parts, and "On a Photograph
of My Mother."
"She's climbing a churchyard hill in Wales
among the graves, April.
She looks almost like a girl.
Is that my face?
No, not mine.
It is the face I come from.
Nearest is the largest stone which wears no name.
I think she would go and past it.
She does not look tired.
There is almost an eagerness to her.
She seems to be smiling among the stones.
I remember so many mornings--
the wakings, the winter breakfasts,
the sending to school.
Down the avenues, the chilly little Englishmen go.
One hot Christmas in Florida, I reach
down into the Gulf waters, 62 years
to the day since your birth, and gathered up shells,
conch for [? lutists ?], Triton, bonnet, helmet, king crown.
I thought myself over oceans all those miles to your door
and laid them circled and shining before you.
And I've heard the blackbird singing at your window.
You think it is Bertrand, your dead Franciscan friend
reminding of paradise.
Such company you keep.
Now, she's alone among the stones.
Now, she climbs hill of grass, hill of flowers.
Oh, mother, mind the Earth that is said to the blind sees.
She looks like a girl.
If my father after all these years returned,
he would know her still.
Sweetheart, he would say and hold her.
Past how many mornings forgotten?
Past how many days of pain I have sensed but not seen?
Past nights, nights past 17 years of them alone.
Past shells, past suns, past stones
toward what must be just beyond what we see,
toward that company you keep, towards singing, toward home.
You, I come from, climb."