Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, by CALE YOUNG RICE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Silence. Shadows. A little wind in the elms
Last Line: To other doors -- and other, and other, and other.
Subject(s): Daughters; Funerals; Mothers; Silence; Soul; Burials


Silence. Shadows. A little wind in the elms
Under a window, a little wind passing.
A sick-bed light burning low in a corner.
An old woman with wry lips whimpering
To a young girl, -- who wakes and answers her,
"What is it, mother?"
"You must bury me --"
"Do not begin that again, mother. Why
Torture yourself with it -- and torture me?"
"You think that death is nothing -- being far from it.
"You can't look into the dark of the grave and see there
What I see; so you say it doesn't matter,
That nothing matters after we are dead --
As if our bodies were only --"
"Go to sleep, dear."
"... It is the first hours lying there
Under the heavy weight of earth I dread,
Not what comes after, though it be the Judgment.
For God won't follow, Shylock-like, I reckon,
Into the grave to have His pound of faith
From one who never has owed Him anything
But misery and black misfortune maybe."
"He won't, dear; so do go to sleep. Tomorrow --"
"... It is the first hours lying there...
So what I ask of you is that you bury me
At early morning; afternoon's too late:
I must have time to get used to the earth,
Before night comes -- with terrible lonely stars --
And used to the dead around me. And by day
It will be easier than under darkness.
I am an old woman: you must promise it."
"I promise, mother; but --"
"You don't! ... You don't care.
You have no pity. You think I am only weak --
And crazy maybe; weak and facing God --
You who believe in Him; weak and whimpering
For a few hours more of useless daylight....
The young are hard -- cold and hard and cruel."
"Mother, dear!"
"They are too happy and heedless
To understand. They have not died ten years
Before they die, to know what the grave is.
Or they believe that death is beautiful,
And see themselves lying pale and still there,
Like stone statues -- while over them is weeping
A world that all too late has learned their worth.
The young can never understand, never,
That in the end old veins may grow so chill
As to care only to be spared at last
The terror, maybe, of a leaking coffin."
"The soul and not the body should concern us
At times like this, mother."
"And who can ever know
When the soul leaves the body? We may lie there
And watch the living over us forget us,
Even while they are laying flowers upon us."
"Mother! Mother!"
"Shake my pillow up then.
Nobody cares whether the old lie easy
In the grave or out of it."
"There, now;
Your pillow was hard. Have you cover enough?"
"No cover will warm the old. Nothing will."
"Goodnight...."
"There's nothing good in any night."
Silence again and shadows. The wind passing
To other doors -- and other, and other, and other.





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