This Making Manifest study has me combing my blog for poetry attempts, and I ran across this villanelle (my first and quite possibly my last) written in response to a December 2011 poetry prompt issued by The High Calling and Tweetspeak Poetry. I wrote it a month after my mother died, and it seems right to revisit it as a belated Mother’s Day remembrance.
To My Mother: A Villanelle
I held you captive in my sight
while evil fingers burrowed deep, and
I heard you crying in the night.
While you focused on the light
and pumpkin-apple deer stood watch
I held you captive in my sight.
You pulled strings, made magic sleight
with finger-writing in the air, but
I heard you crying in the night.
I gathered words and tried to write
of memories and times gone by
to hold you captive in my sight.
Your body spent, His timing right
and just before the snow fell soft,
I heard you silent in the night.
You transcribed life and fought the fight
then shook and snapped the earthly chains
that held you captive in my sight.
I hear you laughing in the night.
In the stillness,
Sandy
I love that you shared this poem. And I really like the way you altered the repeating line at the end. Caught me. Yes.
🙂
I’d almost forgotten I’d written it… let alone wrote it only a month after she died.
Oh Sandra, I love this…..really speaks to me. My Mom is still here but I know someday……she will be laughing in Heaven too.
In heaven… no pain, no tears. But laughter… yes.
I read this and felt my breath being taken away, captured by your words. Beautiful.
Thank you, friend.
Simply breathtaking. You’ve followed the form so beautifully, Sandy (not an easy thing) and I, personally, love poetry with music in it. But mostly, this is so meaningful, because it is not just about a form, but a person–your beloved mother. My mother is my best friend, so I can’t imagine what it has been like for you to lose your mom. But this poem ends . . . or I should say, in a way, begins with hope, because you hear laughter in the beginning of your mother’s eternal journey. Oh, thank you. Thank you so very much for sharing this.
Love
Lynn
Oh, Lynn. I’m so grateful for your presence in this space.
My mom fell out of bed the end of August. Doctors found a malignant brain tumor–a glioblastoma. She died the end of November. My sister and dad and I lived in a hospice home with her for 5 weeks. I wrote my way through those three months–and after.
Oh Sandy. How terribly difficult, and it must have been such a shock for you all. What a bittersweet time this must have been for you and your family to live with your mother–one you never would have wished for or imagined, and yet, one you wouldn’t have traded. I was with my father nearly every, single day during his five-month odyssey of pain and dying in a hospital. It was both a terrible and triumphant time, and God revealed so clearly to us that Daddy was his own. i’m so glad that God has given you such a powerful gift of writing, where you can capture these moments and memories with your beloved mother and share them with others. Her legacy lives on through you. I answered back over at the other post when you mentioned brain cancer. That is what my dear friend has.
Love
Lynn
I am sorry for your friend’s situation. Hard. So hard. I’m glad he has you.
I don’t have words for how beautiful this is, Sandy. Thank you for sharing, my friend. Blessings!
Thanks so much, Martha.
This is so beautiful. The message, the story came clearly through this Villanelle. And before today I had no idea what a Villanelle is!
I hadn’t either until this prompt. 🙂
Sandy, how beautiful!
Thanks, my poetic sister. xo
It was a little hard to read this post as you might imagine in my life with Dad. But at the same time, it was comforting to realize the holiness of being a witness to his journey. It makes me hallow more of what I see should the earthly chains break.
Thank you for sharing. I know you because of her—because of how you loved her and were brave enough to share that love, in words, with someone like me, a perfect stranger who stumbled into your life on a blog. Those posts captured my heart and so does this beautiful poem.
Oh, I can only imagine, Dea. These times, though, that you’re spending with him, as hard as they are, you will treasure them forever. I’m grateful for your friendship and to be able to do a little of life with you.
Dea, I gather from your words here that your father must be very ill. My heart goes out to you because of what my beloved father experienced and because I know what a daughter goes through. You will treasure every moment you spend with him. Praying for God’s hope for you both.
Love in Him,
Lynn
lovely – and I’m missing Mom
I know you are. 🙁
Loved this the first time, love it now. Thank you, Sandy.
Thank you, Diana. Praying for you and your mom right now.
This is powerful, and it really hits me, Sandy! I don’t remember reading it before but it takes me back to when I sat alone by my mother’s hospital bedside as she was dying.
Sigh… I wish we could just climb a mountain and have God just take us up when it’s time.
I’m glad you were able to capture her last moments with your words. I know you miss her. I’m so thankful for our hope in Jesus.
I am, too, Brandee. I don’t know how those without that hope make through the storms.
Oh my. This is really moving. And to think that you wrote this so close after your Mom’s death. Can you still hear her laughing in the night? That is a beautiful image.
My mom died in 2010. It was very fast, six weeks from diagnosis to her leaving us. I don’t think I hear her as much as I see her in some of the things I do. Not as poetic, but it is comforting.
God bless,
Ceil
It was very fast for my mom, too, Ceil. At least after diagnosis–5 weeks. But about two months after she first fell. They pretty much knew on CT scan, but it was a few weeks before she was safe to operate.
I’m pretty sure she laughs pretty hard when the snow falls. She hated snow. Well, at least the cold that came with the snow. 🙂