JAMARTLONDON - jenny (jennifer) meehan

jenny meehan lyrical abstractiion british,contemporary painting english romantic abstraction. surrey south west london visual artist christian abstract modern painting sacred

Alabaster Loving  (For my Mother)

Alabaster loving

I have hardened my heart.

Made a cave

within which

I can hide away.

My flesh,  bruised  and dark

sobs in silence,  surrounded

still,

alone.

 

You came later, bearing gifts  from afar...

Some nativity story, you said,  in recognition of me  being  the chosen one.  

Redeemer,  and  Saviour of your soul?

My love,  holding the hope you hungered for...

 

But I could not carry it.

 

Each little spark of faith,  placed religiously in rapid motion,

layer upon layer, tear upon tear, and sorrow upon sorrow.

 

You looked to me,  and believed  your  self  would define  your better being

in a little child...

But I could not carry it.

 

"I wish you were like other mummies."   I say.  

 

And you are sadder still.

 

I see  the other mothers with their children laughing.

I wish for my own fairy godmother;

Able to transform  rags.  

Cinderella's dress is blue with a bright bodice.

Joy  is not squeezed out of her;  she lives:

Reality on the cover of a single book.

 

I am sorry for my hard heart.  I know now

it must have hurt you;  the reality.

I pulled myself together  in such a tight knot

in order to preserve my life.

I did not mean to make a stone of it.

 

I remember wanting you, on the coach back from Bexhill.

Lumps in my throat...(I had mumps),

but also bumps of sadness.

Looking out of the window, and seeing you in the distance

though you were not really there,  as we had not got back yet.

I wanted to buy you some flowers;  they were  "Gypsophila"

(Commonly known as "Baby's Breath")

Small,  white, and dry,  

but pretty.

 

Then you were there,

I was glad to see you.   You felt like my Mummy,  and you looked after me.

But it didn't seem to last very long.

The flowers, quite possibly,

may have outlived you.

 

I must be forgetting so many good times,

I am sorry for that.   I know they are there.

But I cannot help wrapping the gifts in the paper  you gave me.

It was not soft pink tissue,  but  earth brown,  and protective.

I wish it were different.

Maybe it's  just too hard to think of the colours,

for they may only  make the darkness darker?

 

"Commonly  known as  Baby's Breath"

 

In  tight knots of white

fight,  outward

Tight

Clutch your bunch,  in little hands

Finger strands reach

as thin  fine stalks

balancing flowers

in air.

 

Know " Gypsophila "   means  gypsum- loving

Gypsum white

hard.

I'm making my dry flowers soggy

But my flesh is warm.

 

I think you are in heaven now,

It being a safe place,  I know  you are fine.

I know your maker knows you

and holds your story  within his own flesh,

bound in holy suffering,

complete,

divine.

 

I know he knows my story,  too...

Incomplete,  but unravelling.

 

Unravelling  as self-seeded flowers

Small and unpretending,

moisture loving,  in the childhood garden.

Ever living little eyes,  meeting mine.

No need of nurture,  and

only spread by finding  crevice or gap

in which to place and plant their fragile root.

Forget - Me -Nots

Lay their cloud-like carpet over the earth

winking  dots of timid,

almost blue.

 

"The Creator thought he had finished giving the flowers their colours

he heard one whisper "Forget me not!"

There was nothing left but a very small amount of blue

but the forget-me-not was delighted to wear such a light blue shade."

 

I can hold my stone,   I  need not throw it...

... hold it,

...bury it.

Not re-membered,   exactly,

but neither

forgotten.  

 

 

Jenny Meehan 2018