weekly prompts to spur us to write poetry
Homeless Dub (Prompt #1)
Homeless Dub
“You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been forced.”
“You (good-for-nothing) rice bucket. A rice bucket is even better than you.”
“Why can’t you be (good) like that girl?”
“You’re the oldest. You should know better.”
“Don’t just stand there! Beat it. Get out of the way!”
“What a mess! Do something, nitwit. Wipe it up. Clean it.”
A mixture of smiles and dread curl my body.
I wrap my knees.
I tuck my chin to my chest.
I wonder how tears at the eyes don’t reflect
The tears at the heart, the heave of sorrow
Beating against the thighs, the crescent
Trenches from fingernails worn from wear.
Clean.
To clean.
How to clean.
What to clean.
Where to clean.
How much to clean.
Why aren’t I clean yet?
Scrub-a-dub-dub.
No, not clean.
Only scratch marks that accumulate over time.
Scratches upon scratches.
Some blend in and fade away.
Others remain faint.
Oh, but how marvelous, how strong, how capable
Is the human spirit to survive the past of day-to-day
Only to emerge eventually into full
Flower, fully
Human, and become a ripe adult and bear
Fruit.
No longer in fetal position,
Even the youngest measures
Over two feet tall.
In my children’s eyes I see myself.
A blessing. A curse.
The mirror cracks.
“You are the oldest. You need to look after your siblings.”
“You need to consider others’ feelings. Someday Daddy and I won’t be here to remind you or think for you.”
“I need sleep. Quiet down. Go read your books or play with your toys. Go watch a movie.”
“I need space. Back off. Go away! What did I just say? Do it.”
The daily struggle to neuter the language of the mother tongue
Seeps at my pores, saps my energies, and deposits sprinklings of doubt.
Am I doing enough?
Am I being the mother I want to be?
Am I only making carbon copies of the same emotional-spiritual make-up?
When tempers snap, how do I break the tainted reaches of the disheartening dub?
The language patterns, the syntax, the same intent of the words
Distorted by tradition, culture, family, and gendered values
That I inherited but have no mastery to go beyond
Except when I resort to American
English.
Which I don’t use.
Not with the kids.
Because I want them to speak my home language
Without the charges of remembered pasts.
The one wish I have is for my young ones
To experience these ancestral streams
With the gentlest of spring breezes,
The lullabies of nourishment,
The cradles of xylem and phloem
Rushing strong and pumping pure
Far into the future.
Clean.
Free.
Possibility.
Home.
Land.
Safe.
Landing.
And that is when I reach.
I uncurl
And stretch
And reach
Up. Up. Up.
Up for the sun.




Ouch. The first part of this is very powerful -- especially the imagery of the scratches ("Only scratch marks that accumulate over time.\Scratches upon scratches.\Some blend in and fade away.\Others remain faint.) and the volta line ("Oh, but how marvelous, how strong, how capable\Is the human spirit to survive the past of day-to-day"), and the way the lines to the children play off the first lines of the poem even though they of course don't echo them. And the stanza about language, especially "The cradles of xylem and phloem" -- because of course I still like botany and botanical imagery :)
Yes, I've forgotten that you had that botany background. lol I wrote this poem in a flurry the other day. I'm most probably revising it after I let it brew some more...