leonardcohenforum.com

Mary's Last Legs


She always bore herself well:
that straight-back Wrens photo taken
during her glory years in the Blitz
sits on my mantelshelf. A virgin
sailor, fire-watching on London roofs
for doodlebugs, survived the direct hits.

Today's a visit: I kneel before
her rainbow feet, pick up the bits
the chiropodist missed, observe
magnolia legs criss-crossed
with indigo. Sharp as a tack,
she captures my gaze...

These are my last legs; they'll go
no further. Learn how to sit and wait
when there's nothing left to do.

I kiss her walnut cheek, embrace
her crumbling vertebrae, then take
my leave. There's a train to catch,
and nothing's worse than the wait.


Andrew McGeever

Hi Andrew ~

Is Mary your mother? The tenderness and poignancy of your words would suggest that you're writing about your Mum or another, prominent female figure in your life.

~ Lizzy

Dear Lizzy,

Yes.

Thanks for letting me know, Andrew... you've written your Mum a very beautiful and loving poem. Have you shared it with her?


~ Lizzy

Dear Lizzy,

No.

Dear Andrew ~

I can see how you might feel ambivalent.

~ Lizzy

Hi Andrew,

Inspired. Intimate. Moving. Your Mum's soul, and yours, shine brilliantly in this piece. Sight and vision are yours.

Bernard

Excellent, excellent, excellent feedback, Bernard... thank you for saying what I would have liked to... if I could only have found the words. I experienced what you've written viscerally, but couldn't formulate the most accurate response, as you have. Thank you.


~ Lizzy

Andrew,


Descriptively full
Your love implicit

Beautiful


Boss

Some initial responses:

Lizzy; I don't think ( ) I was/am ambivalent. It's just that it never entered my mind to give the poem to my mother.
Bernard; you are generous in your praise! Thankyou!
Boss; the same goes for you! You wrote "your love implicit". I felt that there was an "implicit" hint that the "I" wanted to escape from the sight/reminder of a woman undergoing the slow process of physical disintegration i.e. "there's a train to catch....". I'll let you into a little secret: when I wrote the last stanza, I was reminded of Leonard Cohen's "Stranger Song" and the way he used the metaphor of trains.
There's something scary about the last stanza, I think

Andrew.

There's something scary about the last stanza, I think

This, and my thoughts that a person might feel ambivalent about sharing a poem with their mother that relates to watching her die, is what spurred my comment, Andrew.

This poem continues to haunt me. This morning, getting ready for work, I thought of the walnut cheeks and, looking in my mirror, wondered how I will look when I'm near death [that, hopefully, being when I'm truly 'old']. I also thought about how your poem strikes chords with all of our fears/concerns regarding our old age and mortality. What will our physical/mental/emotional issues be in the end? The potential of being left uncared for in some institution, where a son or a daughter, don't come to "pick up the bits / the chiropodist missed" ~ and his having missed them in the first place... unless your reference was merely to cleaning up, afterward...

I appreciate the contrasting images of the train, the disintegration, and the wait for that process to unfold and for death to finally come... the speeding away from the unwelcome sight of your beloved mother enduring her physical decline and her own waiting for death, as well as your waiting for it... the wait at the train station for the train to arrive, to sweep you back to vital life is another aspect of "wait" here. You're waiting [generally speaking, there's an anticipatory aspect to that] for something you don't want to see happen... hence, there's nothing worse.

So much, so rich, so haunting... and so loving.


Love,
Lizzy

Dear Lizzy et al,
I recall a televised interview with Leonard Cohen (with that Swedish woman who was drooling all over him ...help required here ) where he spoke of ageing, and him entering "the third act of the play".
"Mary" is deep into the third act, though her mental faculties are on a far higher level than her physical capabilities ( hence "sharp as a tack").
The first stanza is the first act, in more ways than one
Lizzy, you wrote, "this poem continues to haunt me". It certainly intrigues me, but is beginning to haunt me too: your last post helped in that respect.

as aye,
Andrew.

Andrew the depth of your love shines through.....you have a very kind heart. Thanks for sharing


Craig

Stina

Yes, your poem is well and clearly divided into its acts, Andrew. Very satisfying to read. I like what Craig said about you as its writer, too.

~ Lizzy