Anne

Poem about a chance meeting on a bus that led to the realisation that ignoring pain from the past will not make it go away. We all need to acknowledge and process our hurts.

I met an old lady on the bus,

Whose mum died when she was two.

She didn't remember life that well,

Or chose not to focus on it,

But several times she said, again,

"My mum died when I was two."

I met an old lady on the bus,

Whose mum died when she was two.

"I was one of ten children", she explained,

"We all looked after each other,"

And several times she said, again,

"My mum died when I was two."

I met an old lady on the bus,

Whose mum died when she was two.

I thought it must have been hard for her,

"No," she said, "you just get on with it don't you?"

Still, several times she said, again,

"My mum died when I was two."

I met an old lady on the bus,

Whose mum died when she was two.

Her name was Anne, she told me once,

And briefly spoke of children,

But several times she said, again,

"My mum died when I was two."

I met an old lady on the bus

Whose mum died when she was two.

She was a positive, cheerful type,

Bus pass in hand she enjoyed her travels,

But it couldn't stop her thinking,

"My mum died when I was two."

I met an old lady on the bus,

Whose mum died when she was two.

She said childhood was her happiest time, but

"It's harder now, I just ... you know ..."

And it was clear that she was grieving,

From her mum dying when she was two.

I met an old lady on the bus,

Whose mum died when she was two.

I felt identification with her pain,

Enduring abandonment.

And several more times she said, again,

"My mum died when I was two."

Reviews

[barleygirl]

I have the impression that you use repetition to create a huge pounding undeniable statement about how this old woman is still hurting due to her mom's death long ago. But I completely see it in a different way. Your repetition is so extreme, it brings to mind how someone with alzheimers really does not feel one single thing regarding the words that spill forth -- it's just a mindless unfeeling repetitive tic. That's how this poem reads to me. I would ignore this woman after awhile, instead of sympathizing with her sob story as you seem to be doing. Lots of people use a line like "my mom died when I was 2" as a defining mantra, as if summoning sympathy everywhere they go. You can't have a conversation with someone like this becuz they're brainwashed by their own hard-luck story. I believe in my heart that we need to stop & spend a moment & give some understanding to an old person like this, but I don't go in for making every personality tic into a sob story. I love your writing, I just don't go for a maudlin interpretation of this particular street-person meeting (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Helen]

It's useful to know this is how the poem comes across and I note the other review I have says it is sad too, which wasn't really the intention. There's a crucial element missing, that I must have kept hidden from the reader (although I originally wrote the poem for me). The hidden aspect is how this conversation related to me, and what was going on for me at the time. There is a clue in the lines “I felt identification with her pain, enduring abandonment”, but I guess that is all I express of how it related to me and it looks like it is all about sympathy for her.

The part I seem to have kept hidden is that meeting Anne helped me, and I wanted to honour that in a poem. The reason for this is that I had been through a lifetime struggle with how I felt about the fact that "my mum left when I was 8". Generally speaking, I told myself it wasn’t that bad and I should just be over it and grow up and I pushed down the pain and tried not to look at it. I was just opening up for healing around this at the time when I met Anne on the bus, but felt guilty about not being over it, not being able to cope with life because of something that happened so long ago. The repetitive conversation I had with Anne convinced me that I was right to dig into my past and process it because I did not want to end up like her, still obsessed by and chained to the past when it was too late to do anything about it.

Thank you for your review Margie and for taking the time to offer constructive comments. I seriously don’t know how you keep up with all the reading and sincere and thoughtful reviewing that you do and writing poems too!

Just one final thought …. my other defense (if I need one lol) is that I wrote this a long time before coming to the Writer’sCafe so I had not received all the useful feedback about my penchant for repetition! And I guess at the time too, apart from liking repetition, it seemed appropriate as a reflection of the repetitive conversation too.

[barleygirl]

I wonder if you've written any prose? (other than the long missives you so generously share in your reviews) . . . Lots of stories are too complex for poetry & they really do beg for a treatment in prose. This story might be one of those. I often write a poem about something like this, noticing that nobody really got what I was getting at, & then later I write it as a story & people love it. That's what the cafe is for. To find these things out . . .

[Helen]

I wrote a whole story which is posted on the site organised in chapters("My name is Helen and I am") - but I'm guessing you are talking about something a bit shorter. It's a challenge moving away from my inner world and describing things for other people, but a short story might be my next challenge (thank you for sowing the seed).

Asking for honest feedback here too - are my 'missives' TOO long (i.e. annoying)?

[barleygirl]

I did see your multi-chp posting & put it in my reading library. As you might know, hardly anyone reads/reviews multi-chp postings at the cafe. I'm plowing thru 4 different books at the cafe, so I hesitate to start a new one until I've finished one. I can only do a few chapters a week & I'm a dedicated reviewer. That is why I feel mastering the short story is a good idea. People in today's world have short attention spans. Writing a good short story is more challenging than you might think, especially a short story that's 1000 words or less, which is the length most readers still find easily inviting for a quick read.

I write long reviews & I know people get tired of reading my crap, but I don't mind. I still put it out there. Even if the poet I'm reviewing isn't crazy about my rambling, lots of other people read reviews for lots of reasons. So my thoughts are out there if anyone wants to read it. If they don't, so be it. As writers, we have to have thick skin & just offer what we have to offer, not basing our satisfaction on whether anyone reads us or cares about what we post. Some weeks I feel very loved, like my long reviews are treasured. Some weeks I feel like a rambling old fart that people simply humor becuz I've been here a long time.

The bottom line is, what you have to say in your long rambles is compelling, well-stated, & relatable to many people. I would say that anyone who starts one of your long rambles will probably finish it & think about it for a bit. Some progress can't be seen with our own two eyes. We have to just trust that we're putting our magic out there for some reason unknown to us.

[Helen]

Sincerely, thank you

[Helen]

For the advice and for making me laugh

[Nix is typing...]

Awwh, this story makes me sad. But It's like, I understand. I really like this story. I feel so bad for the old lady.

[Helen]

Thank you for reading and commenting and understanding - and even for being sad. It is sad that she never had a chance to resolve her sadness, but my chance meeting with her meant that I understood what I needed to do. Before that I had pushed my own sadness down and tried to tell myself "you're a grown up now, you should be over that". So she gave me a wonderful gift, which maybe doesn't come across in the poem, but meeting her literally changed my life.