Sonnet: Mama

[Jackie]

That night in the village you shut our door against
the storm. We who were seated by torchlight there
all rushed inside. The talking grew louder to top
the rain on the roof. Your laughter caressed me, curled up
on my mat. I woke with a chill. The door was ajar.
The sky was starless. Wavering forward and high
in the dark was a light: you'd gone uphill to phone.
I leaned there--I slept--waiting for you on the porch.
By dawn the hill was no more. The back yard trees
of the facing house were all there was to see.
Into the mist you melded that day. Did you know
it would take you away from me? Did you try to warn me?
No, for I slept in your laughter there on the floor.
If you'd looked in my corner, surely you'd have latched the door.

[David2]

Sounds like quite a storm, Jackie. It took the hill away, and your - or the N's - mother with it? I know it's a weakness of mine, but I respond differerntly to poems like this depending on whether they are pure autobiography or literary exercises in one persona or another. I don't think I should, but I do.

Leaving that aside, the poem itself seemed a bit staccato: lots of brief sentences, little packets of information. Quite an affecting story, though. I can't help wondering whether this is an American or an African experience.

I was left a bit puzzled by the closing couplet, but I enjoyed the poem.

Cheers

David

[Ros]

I respond differerntly to poems like this depending on whether they are pure autobiography or literary exercises in one persona or another. I don't think I should, but I do.

What if you can't tell?

I think this sonnet is not so successful as your others - it feels more like a story told in prose, to me. These short sentences seem to imply a profound-ness that they don't really deliver.

I woke with a chill. The door was ajar.
The sky was starless.

I like the last line very much. Perhaps you could make the rest of it a little more surreal, for it must have felt like that, the hill disappearing.

Ros

[Jackie]

Thank you, Ros and David. Isn't everything you write to an extent autobiographical? You might add scallops around the edges or give it a new purpose or setting, but you are trying to be faithful to a shock or a vision that is real. Well, that's so for me. In this case, the (African) village storm and morning mist are real. I think my mistake was trying to weave a story in a sonnet. It's not the right genre for it. Back to work!

Jackie

[KevJ]

Well I enjoyed the read and found the story compelling. I'm not sure though that this is the stuff of sonnets but as a poem in its own right it stands up well.

Kev