ARTISTIC TIME
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
No matter what anyone says,
men have it easier being artists than women -
especially those with outside work.
Men work,
come home,
take up pen and paper,
whatever their talent dictates.
Women,
on the other hand,
work,
come home,
deal with the housework,
the laundry,
the children,
the cleaning up after the pets,
dealing with the whims of their men,
their men’s needs,
(screw their own needs),
fix dinner,
do the dishes,
screw their men,
then,
if we are very lucky,
we may be able to fit in
a couple of minutes of
writing,
painting,
creating
between
cleaning the bathroom
and sleep.
What is amazing
is not that we can create well,
but that we have time to create. Period.
While driving cab, I discovered that several of my male co-workers wrote, painted, in general, created. They mentioned being thankful that their wives took care of "the house stuff", leaving them (the men) with a few hours to create. Hence, this poem. Anyone who has done double-duty - work and housework - while trying to do triple-duty by adding creativity will understand.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
Wednesday, April 7, 2021
Tuesday, April 6, 2021
RAINY NIGHT
RAINY NIGHT
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Rainy night.
I’d planned to stay home,
sealed against the cold drenching.
As luck would have it,
an old friend changed the night
with his call,
steering me into the downpour.
Everyone,
it seems,
needs someone to listen,
a warm flannel shirt hugging the inner workings.
Traveling
to pick him up,
I wonder if he wants so much to go out
as to have someone who cares,
knowing someone will brave the rain.
Everyone,
it seems,
needs a hero,
a warm friendly face.
On the way there,
I tense as the car tries to slide.
The road is slick
and doesn’t give much traction.
Up ahead,
a light turns red,
sending long fingers of light
reflecting toward me.
I slow up,
trying not to skid,
begin to lose, then steadily stop.
Rivers of rain
snake down my windshield
as the wipers swoosh back and forth.
This is a long light,
prone to give new meaning to the term
“light year.”
He’s given that to me, our private joke.
As I wait,
I look around.
Lights reflecting everywhere:
red and green stoplights,
neon reds, yellows, blues and pinks,
apartment and store windows
all bouncing off the pavements,
shimmering,
swimming in the puddles
and wet.
Light change,
I ease forward.
The car slides,
then catches as I ease off.
A block,
then another,
a third,
and then,
on the fourth (and two lights later)
is the brownstone that surrounds him.
The third floor is his;
high enough for a view,
but not too high.
This evening,
we’ll sit in the window,
watch the view,
talk,
and maybe more.
We decide I’ll stay the night;
no sense going home
in the driving rain.
In the morning,
I head home before work.
The dry daylight
is a different world.
Don't we all want someone who'll brave the weather for us? This is from my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Rainy night.
I’d planned to stay home,
sealed against the cold drenching.
As luck would have it,
an old friend changed the night
with his call,
steering me into the downpour.
Everyone,
it seems,
needs someone to listen,
a warm flannel shirt hugging the inner workings.
Traveling
to pick him up,
I wonder if he wants so much to go out
as to have someone who cares,
knowing someone will brave the rain.
Everyone,
it seems,
needs a hero,
a warm friendly face.
On the way there,
I tense as the car tries to slide.
The road is slick
and doesn’t give much traction.
Up ahead,
a light turns red,
sending long fingers of light
reflecting toward me.
I slow up,
trying not to skid,
begin to lose, then steadily stop.
Rivers of rain
snake down my windshield
as the wipers swoosh back and forth.
This is a long light,
prone to give new meaning to the term
“light year.”
He’s given that to me, our private joke.
As I wait,
I look around.
Lights reflecting everywhere:
red and green stoplights,
neon reds, yellows, blues and pinks,
apartment and store windows
all bouncing off the pavements,
shimmering,
swimming in the puddles
and wet.
Light change,
I ease forward.
The car slides,
then catches as I ease off.
A block,
then another,
a third,
and then,
on the fourth (and two lights later)
is the brownstone that surrounds him.
The third floor is his;
high enough for a view,
but not too high.
This evening,
we’ll sit in the window,
watch the view,
talk,
and maybe more.
We decide I’ll stay the night;
no sense going home
in the driving rain.
In the morning,
I head home before work.
The dry daylight
is a different world.
Don't we all want someone who'll brave the weather for us? This is from my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.
Monday, April 5, 2021
WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW
WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2018
I
For years,
my ex and I lived for the weekends.
Unemployed for months,
living in the house next door
to his parents,
a house they'd inherited,
he'd finally found work,
bringing in a weekly paycheck –
pittance, though it was –
when combined with
food stamps and
no rent,
it paid the bills, if just barely.
Friday,
after work,
we'd gather the kids,
pile into the car,
and go to the nearest Albertson's,
a farther drive than
the Winn Dixie,
but newer and cleaner.
After the weekly shopping,
reminiscent of going to the A&P
as a child
with my parents on Fridays,
we'd stop by the neighborhood Wendy's
for dinner,
always a treat.
Burgers, fries and sodas,
a big deal for the kids,
and no cooking or clean up,
a big deal for me.
Every week,
we'd see the same families,
kids in tow,
having Friday fast food dinners,
feeling comfortable enough
for some conversations.
“How was your week?”
“Great, and yours?”
When one family's boys spent too much time
in the rest room,
Mom'd tell the youngest,
“Go tell your brothers
to quit homesteading
if they want to eat.”
We all laughed at that.
Now, years later,
if someone takes too long,
the family code is that
they're homesteading.
We'd watch the sky
across the street
darken in the winter,
stay light in the summer
as we ate.
Then, finished,
we'd tell the other two or three families
we'd see them
the next week.
Gradually,
kids grew, jobs and hours changed,
Albertsons built a new, closer store
that took us closer
to other fast food places.
I wonder about the homesteaders.
II
His parents split,
and the rental became
his mom's home.
She lived with us for a month or so;
you relegated her,
in her own house,
to the utility room.
Finally,
I told her to come inside.
You lost a job,
found another,
lost it,
found another.
In desperation,
I found and took a job
with a future,
and, after a contentious weekend,
moved us out of your mom's house.
She mourned,
wanting us back.
But six people in a 2-bedroom place
was rough.
The rent in the new place
took a third of our income,
then went up more.
I lost my job,
in part because
you were too proud to do
“women's work,”
laundry,
dishes,
cleaning
while I worked full time
and you stayed home,
watching TV and the kids.
A job
revolving around
physical work
required more than three hours of sleep a night,
and catching up on weekends.
You then took a job,
while I stayed home.
III
Three moves later,
you leave to find work out of state,
leaving me to care for four kids.
I find work
while going to school full time.
We move,
and you come back.
You promised to change,
and found a job
you loved
(security in a topless bar).
You spent weekends at
the flea market,
and took a job there,
working with a friend,
running errands while he ran the booth,
helping him sell radios and such.
The security job failed,
and the flea market was your main job,
paid $100 a week.
Sy (“Hi-Fi Sy”) offered our oldest a job –
his first –
making almost as much
as you on weekends.
Finally, the stress of
work,
kids,
not enough money,
too much rent,
and other nonsense too its toll.
We had to move again.
IV
Every place we looked,
they'd rent to me,
even with four kids and a dog.
But you'd somehow jinx the deal.
Finally, you checked with a rental place.
“Sorry, you don't make enough,”
the man told you.
Our income was $20 a month shy
of 1/3 the rent,
which meant they wouldn't
rent to you.
The next day,
I took off from both jobs and school,
went to the rental agency
and fast-talked the same man
into handing me keys
to two houses.
“Take your pick,” he told me.
I picked one,
paid the rent and deposit,
and had us in the next day.
You lost,
found,
lost,
found
several dead-end jobs,
finally finding one you loved
only when I'd
asked you to leave.
With your own place to rent –
a cheap efficiency –
you made do.
I took a job driving cab,
took a few days off
when you died –
the job had no health insurance,
which meant you neglected your health –
then worked hard,
long,
12-hour days.
Met another driver
who knew how to treat a lady.
He'd nursed his late wife,
a waitress in several diners,
when her cancer showed up,
was cured,
then came back.
A man who'll care for
a dying wife
is a real man.
We married eight years after her death,
three years after my divorce,
and your death.
We both worked,
then had to quit
when our eyesight
started to fail.
I cared for him
as he'd cared for her
during his final years.
V
Working class life
is so much harder than
life for the rich.
The hours are long,
the pay is crap,
the rents are high,
the little bit of Obamacare
is being pulled away
by the obscenely rich,
making health care hard to come by.
It's the working poor's work
that has built up the rich,
built on our backs,
giving them their life
as they pull aways ours.
Someday –
probably soon –
the revolution will knock
the crap out of those rich who don't care.
Be forewarned.
This is a newer poem (written 6/17/18 – 6/18/18) from an upcoming book titled Working Class Poems, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2018
I
For years,
my ex and I lived for the weekends.
Unemployed for months,
living in the house next door
to his parents,
a house they'd inherited,
he'd finally found work,
bringing in a weekly paycheck –
pittance, though it was –
when combined with
food stamps and
no rent,
it paid the bills, if just barely.
Friday,
after work,
we'd gather the kids,
pile into the car,
and go to the nearest Albertson's,
a farther drive than
the Winn Dixie,
but newer and cleaner.
After the weekly shopping,
reminiscent of going to the A&P
as a child
with my parents on Fridays,
we'd stop by the neighborhood Wendy's
for dinner,
always a treat.
Burgers, fries and sodas,
a big deal for the kids,
and no cooking or clean up,
a big deal for me.
Every week,
we'd see the same families,
kids in tow,
having Friday fast food dinners,
feeling comfortable enough
for some conversations.
“How was your week?”
“Great, and yours?”
When one family's boys spent too much time
in the rest room,
Mom'd tell the youngest,
“Go tell your brothers
to quit homesteading
if they want to eat.”
We all laughed at that.
Now, years later,
if someone takes too long,
the family code is that
they're homesteading.
We'd watch the sky
across the street
darken in the winter,
stay light in the summer
as we ate.
Then, finished,
we'd tell the other two or three families
we'd see them
the next week.
Gradually,
kids grew, jobs and hours changed,
Albertsons built a new, closer store
that took us closer
to other fast food places.
I wonder about the homesteaders.
II
His parents split,
and the rental became
his mom's home.
She lived with us for a month or so;
you relegated her,
in her own house,
to the utility room.
Finally,
I told her to come inside.
You lost a job,
found another,
lost it,
found another.
In desperation,
I found and took a job
with a future,
and, after a contentious weekend,
moved us out of your mom's house.
She mourned,
wanting us back.
But six people in a 2-bedroom place
was rough.
The rent in the new place
took a third of our income,
then went up more.
I lost my job,
in part because
you were too proud to do
“women's work,”
laundry,
dishes,
cleaning
while I worked full time
and you stayed home,
watching TV and the kids.
A job
revolving around
physical work
required more than three hours of sleep a night,
and catching up on weekends.
You then took a job,
while I stayed home.
III
Three moves later,
you leave to find work out of state,
leaving me to care for four kids.
I find work
while going to school full time.
We move,
and you come back.
You promised to change,
and found a job
you loved
(security in a topless bar).
You spent weekends at
the flea market,
and took a job there,
working with a friend,
running errands while he ran the booth,
helping him sell radios and such.
The security job failed,
and the flea market was your main job,
paid $100 a week.
Sy (“Hi-Fi Sy”) offered our oldest a job –
his first –
making almost as much
as you on weekends.
Finally, the stress of
work,
kids,
not enough money,
too much rent,
and other nonsense too its toll.
We had to move again.
IV
Every place we looked,
they'd rent to me,
even with four kids and a dog.
But you'd somehow jinx the deal.
Finally, you checked with a rental place.
“Sorry, you don't make enough,”
the man told you.
Our income was $20 a month shy
of 1/3 the rent,
which meant they wouldn't
rent to you.
The next day,
I took off from both jobs and school,
went to the rental agency
and fast-talked the same man
into handing me keys
to two houses.
“Take your pick,” he told me.
I picked one,
paid the rent and deposit,
and had us in the next day.
You lost,
found,
lost,
found
several dead-end jobs,
finally finding one you loved
only when I'd
asked you to leave.
With your own place to rent –
a cheap efficiency –
you made do.
I took a job driving cab,
took a few days off
when you died –
the job had no health insurance,
which meant you neglected your health –
then worked hard,
long,
12-hour days.
Met another driver
who knew how to treat a lady.
He'd nursed his late wife,
a waitress in several diners,
when her cancer showed up,
was cured,
then came back.
A man who'll care for
a dying wife
is a real man.
We married eight years after her death,
three years after my divorce,
and your death.
We both worked,
then had to quit
when our eyesight
started to fail.
I cared for him
as he'd cared for her
during his final years.
V
Working class life
is so much harder than
life for the rich.
The hours are long,
the pay is crap,
the rents are high,
the little bit of Obamacare
is being pulled away
by the obscenely rich,
making health care hard to come by.
It's the working poor's work
that has built up the rich,
built on our backs,
giving them their life
as they pull aways ours.
Someday –
probably soon –
the revolution will knock
the crap out of those rich who don't care.
Be forewarned.
This is a newer poem (written 6/17/18 – 6/18/18) from an upcoming book titled Working Class Poems, which is looking for a publisher.
Sunday, April 4, 2021
EVEN IN DESOLATION
EVEN IN DESOLATION
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Even in desolation,
I know there’s life.
In the dust bowl of my emotions,
where all my tears have burned
the flowering vegetation off
and made a mockery of joy,
is the whoosh of wind
blowing, dancing, moving and pulsing
in the dusty
gritty storm.
My entire being feels picked clean
like the skeletal remains of
a buffalo left to die in the desert;
the sensation is wholly complete,
leaving me completely disconnected.
My withered spirit craves
water,
food,
colors of the spectrum.
And yet,
even in desolation,
I know that there is life.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Even in desolation,
I know there’s life.
In the dust bowl of my emotions,
where all my tears have burned
the flowering vegetation off
and made a mockery of joy,
is the whoosh of wind
blowing, dancing, moving and pulsing
in the dusty
gritty storm.
My entire being feels picked clean
like the skeletal remains of
a buffalo left to die in the desert;
the sensation is wholly complete,
leaving me completely disconnected.
My withered spirit craves
water,
food,
colors of the spectrum.
And yet,
even in desolation,
I know that there is life.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
Saturday, April 3, 2021
Politics
POLITICS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2015, 2016
I like my morning coffee light
with a sweet roll on the side.
I'd take my whisky sour
but I never want to hide.
There's way too much duplicity
to let the bullshit slide,
Especially with the trash-talkers
trying to take us for a ride.
The first four lines were written a while back, with the remainder written the following year. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2015, 2016
I like my morning coffee light
with a sweet roll on the side.
I'd take my whisky sour
but I never want to hide.
There's way too much duplicity
to let the bullshit slide,
Especially with the trash-talkers
trying to take us for a ride.
The first four lines were written a while back, with the remainder written the following year. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.
Friday, April 2, 2021
BIKE RIDE, JULY 1
BIKE RIDE, JULY 1
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2017
I'd been a runner for years
until the remnants of an old injury
side-tracked me with pain.
It wasn't so much the day-to-day stuff that hurt,
more like the pounding-on-pavement
that aggravated it.
But there it was:
my bike,
taking up space
and calling to me.
Ride, it called.
So I did.
The first day of the second half of the year
fell on a Saturday.
Running clothes on
(still a runner),
I peddle down the driveway
and head for my running-route, cross-country.
The nearby stables,
smelling of horses,
sweet hay,
and manure,
went by quicker than I'm used to,
while the smells and sounds
fill the air.
Several horses whinny,
and a radio fills in the void
between chatter
as two women clean the stable,
another grooms a horse.
Keith Urban finishes a song,
and Dolly Parton begins
as I ride out of earshot.
Across the three-lane avenue –
one lane in either direction,
separated by a turn lane –
I continue cross-country.
There's a spot
just past a moved-in house on the left,
a canal for rain over-flow and town houses on the right,
just past where the woods begin,
that I can feel loved-ones.
That may seem strange,
but it always had a sense of mystery at this spot,
a place reminiscent of the woods
my grandmother and I passed by several times,
a place that seemed to spark
Grandma's imagination.
“Did I ever tell you about the time...,” she'd begin.
And so I think of Grandma as I ride through here.
I've since begun thinking of others,
dead and gone,
but not forgotten
by any stretch,
as I pass by.
Back on the three-lane avenue,
I pass the front of the town houses
with their blooming Hibiscus shrubs
in yellow,
pink,
and red
along the sidewalk.
One of the townhouses
sports a couple of neon signs
on the porch facing the sidewalk,
an older couple sitting under the signs
while drinking coffee
and talking.
I continue on my ride,
lost in my thoughts,
waiting for the time
I can run,
but enjoying the scenery
all the same.
Written on July 1, 2017. This is part of a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother, and is a good partner to my poem titled Running.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2017
I'd been a runner for years
until the remnants of an old injury
side-tracked me with pain.
It wasn't so much the day-to-day stuff that hurt,
more like the pounding-on-pavement
that aggravated it.
But there it was:
my bike,
taking up space
and calling to me.
Ride, it called.
So I did.
The first day of the second half of the year
fell on a Saturday.
Running clothes on
(still a runner),
I peddle down the driveway
and head for my running-route, cross-country.
The nearby stables,
smelling of horses,
sweet hay,
and manure,
went by quicker than I'm used to,
while the smells and sounds
fill the air.
Several horses whinny,
and a radio fills in the void
between chatter
as two women clean the stable,
another grooms a horse.
Keith Urban finishes a song,
and Dolly Parton begins
as I ride out of earshot.
Across the three-lane avenue –
one lane in either direction,
separated by a turn lane –
I continue cross-country.
There's a spot
just past a moved-in house on the left,
a canal for rain over-flow and town houses on the right,
just past where the woods begin,
that I can feel loved-ones.
That may seem strange,
but it always had a sense of mystery at this spot,
a place reminiscent of the woods
my grandmother and I passed by several times,
a place that seemed to spark
Grandma's imagination.
“Did I ever tell you about the time...,” she'd begin.
And so I think of Grandma as I ride through here.
I've since begun thinking of others,
dead and gone,
but not forgotten
by any stretch,
as I pass by.
Back on the three-lane avenue,
I pass the front of the town houses
with their blooming Hibiscus shrubs
in yellow,
pink,
and red
along the sidewalk.
One of the townhouses
sports a couple of neon signs
on the porch facing the sidewalk,
an older couple sitting under the signs
while drinking coffee
and talking.
I continue on my ride,
lost in my thoughts,
waiting for the time
I can run,
but enjoying the scenery
all the same.
Written on July 1, 2017. This is part of a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother, and is a good partner to my poem titled Running.
Thursday, April 1, 2021
Morning Walk, Misty Day
Morning Walk, Misty Day
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2014
Heading out for a morning walk on a misty day,
beginning of the new year,
the thought crosses my mind to stay inside.
There's a fine mist going on from the grey skies
and there's a slight chill to the air.
Any other day, I'd think cold,
but since there's been a recent record freeze nation-wide,
it really isn't bad cold.
Grey hoodie zip-up sweatshirt, check,
long black pants, check,running shoes, check.Past several houses and I'm in the park,
turquoise shoes getting muddy
on the damp dirt path.
Somewhere nearby is a
rhythmic thump-thump-thump
of heavy equipment.
Finally spot city trucks,
working in the mist to
spruce up the park –
horse trails,
little league baseball fields,
life in a small town.
Dirt, split-rail fence, trees,
all various shades of brown,
held up by green grass,
capped by grey skies.
Nearby stable, red paint peeling in spots,
horses outside in the fields,
breakfasting on hay and water
in the mist
while the two women who work the stable,
one, the owner, the other, a friend,
muck out stalls,
dumping soiled offerings in a fence-in pile
to be carted off later,
then replacing it with fresh woodchips,
putting fresh oats and water in each stall
before bringing the horses, now wet,
back in to be dried, brushed, and put back in stalls.
A radio in the tack room plays a country station;
Dolly Parton's melodious voice travels across the mist
like a lemon-light beam, which drifts off as I head away.
To the right is a stand of cyprus trees,
looking like pine trees turning brown, losing needles.
The tan leaves mingle with the dark brown muddle path.
Just before crossing the wet street,
I hit the large button that switches on
the yellow caution – pedestrian crossing light.
The path – really a short dirt road – is equally muddy,
though lightly, mistily so.
In one of the townhouses that backs against
the drainage ditch next to the road
the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree
show through the partially open curtains.First thought: Do they realize it's January 9? Tree should be down already.
Who am I to say what's right,
what's wrong
in other people's lives?
Besides, the lights are cheery in the dreary misty mist.
A pale yellow box truck passes on the paved street ahead,
temporarily making a flash of color.
Finally,
I turn back,
pass the twinkling Christmas lights,
hit the flashing-caustion-pedestrian-crossing-light button,
see the barn, horses being brought inside,
the country DJ saying rain, all day,
hear the thump-thump-thump of the city trucks,
before unlocking the front door,
seeing two sleeping cats
and grab a cup of coffee.
Written on January 9, 2014 after a walk. I then sent a copy to my mother, who was in bad health. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2014
Heading out for a morning walk on a misty day,
beginning of the new year,
the thought crosses my mind to stay inside.
There's a fine mist going on from the grey skies
and there's a slight chill to the air.
Any other day, I'd think cold,
but since there's been a recent record freeze nation-wide,
it really isn't bad cold.
Grey hoodie zip-up sweatshirt, check,
long black pants, check,running shoes, check.Past several houses and I'm in the park,
turquoise shoes getting muddy
on the damp dirt path.
Somewhere nearby is a
rhythmic thump-thump-thump
of heavy equipment.
Finally spot city trucks,
working in the mist to
spruce up the park –
horse trails,
little league baseball fields,
life in a small town.
Dirt, split-rail fence, trees,
all various shades of brown,
held up by green grass,
capped by grey skies.
Nearby stable, red paint peeling in spots,
horses outside in the fields,
breakfasting on hay and water
in the mist
while the two women who work the stable,
one, the owner, the other, a friend,
muck out stalls,
dumping soiled offerings in a fence-in pile
to be carted off later,
then replacing it with fresh woodchips,
putting fresh oats and water in each stall
before bringing the horses, now wet,
back in to be dried, brushed, and put back in stalls.
A radio in the tack room plays a country station;
Dolly Parton's melodious voice travels across the mist
like a lemon-light beam, which drifts off as I head away.
To the right is a stand of cyprus trees,
looking like pine trees turning brown, losing needles.
The tan leaves mingle with the dark brown muddle path.
Just before crossing the wet street,
I hit the large button that switches on
the yellow caution – pedestrian crossing light.
The path – really a short dirt road – is equally muddy,
though lightly, mistily so.
In one of the townhouses that backs against
the drainage ditch next to the road
the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree
show through the partially open curtains.First thought: Do they realize it's January 9? Tree should be down already.
Who am I to say what's right,
what's wrong
in other people's lives?
Besides, the lights are cheery in the dreary misty mist.
A pale yellow box truck passes on the paved street ahead,
temporarily making a flash of color.
Finally,
I turn back,
pass the twinkling Christmas lights,
hit the flashing-caustion-pedestrian-crossing-light button,
see the barn, horses being brought inside,
the country DJ saying rain, all day,
hear the thump-thump-thump of the city trucks,
before unlocking the front door,
seeing two sleeping cats
and grab a cup of coffee.
Written on January 9, 2014 after a walk. I then sent a copy to my mother, who was in bad health. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.
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