MY MOTHER’S WINDOW
MY MOTHER’S WINDOW
There is
a photograph of myself and my Mother.
It is
one of those pictures where her eyes seek and follow,
No
matter where you are in the room.
The
photograph makes her real, while I look hot
And
asleep, somehow absent. But her stare continues,
Undeniably
real. Lost life looms. I am wearing the same
T-Shirt
today as I am in the picture. It was taken by one
Of my
almost brothers, as Anthony too, knew my Mum.
I can
clearly remember the day when the picture was taken.
I was
making a short film to frame her, as an entirely new
Stage
(and screen) had begun. My Mother had never acted
Before
but she was brilliant at it. Anthony acted superbly,
But he
did not do what she did. Which was to somehow
Transcend
and to know, and to speak in a strange new way
Through
the camera. She knew the reasons why
We were
filming. It was something to see when she’d gone.
This was
never discussed. It was just part of the bravery
Of her.
As monumental now in reflection,
As when
I left home at Nineteen. How that kills parents,
That
shift; it’s like a tiny death in them,
As they
lose and free children who will never
Come
back as first seen. But Lilian knew, though
She
enjoyed the day, I remember. She laughed,
Took
direction – which was the most surprising
Of all –
and relaxed. As if there were nothing off
With the
light, and that the expected day would obey us,
Allowing
us to feel both calm and protected
From any
future form of attack.
Now this
photograph is that film, with all of it held
By one
image. It’s a bottle of sorts, the imp’s lantern
From
which she may one day rise, like a flame.
Perhaps
I’ll be too old then to see, or dead myself,
But
she’ll do it. She was such a powerful person
And so
much of that force fuels each frame.
It’s
part of what she gave me, along with this house
And
care, clothes, possessions, a life of love
That was
measured by the strictest rules of the game.
So, for
those who have gone in this time of change,
I am
with you. For those who are left your departed
Have
made a deep sacrifice. They have simply stepped
Through
the gate that this Science Fiction Fact has now
Captured.
As photographs become portals, windows
In the
real, some advice: Just think of this as a war,
Such as
the one my Mum lived through. Born in 1938,
She had
purchase on the cost of such loss for six years.
As did
my Dad, who will have his own poem.
But his
last look when I found him was framed by
A
further world of dark glass. Death does this to the eyes.
They
suddenly reveal different windows. Now, if I talk
Of this
torment I do not do so to depress,
But
simply to state how we must seek the worth
In each
moment as we do not as yet know which story
Is being
filmed, or addressed. When I look now at the shot
I see
both hers and my childhood. I see her as a young girl
Tap
dancing and then the older woman excited by the famous
Phil
Collins drum break. I see where reality warped in that last
Awful
hour, in which I held her hand, as we splintered
And I
could feel our souls weep and ache. In the film I get
The last
of her past before cancer claimed her.
She had
reached beauty’s end, as we all must, when it decides
To
withdraw from the face. She was not conventionally pretty,
My Mum,
but she had such magic to her. She could also be
Judgemental,
ferocious and the most outrageous girl in the place.
She
could be unforgiving, tough, tame, and despite her lack
Of touch,
truly loving. Had she lived today, she’d have managed,
And now
an expert onscreen, battled through. But she left.
She
escaped through pain’s sharp gate for new country.
She did
not become a statistic that is being held up to us now,
Like a
brand. She was the brightest fire, a force and she lives
In me,
every moment. She would have had the world at her window
And held
most of it too in her hands. Which were small, elegant
And I
can feel them now as I’m typing, guiding my fingers
And
making sure you that all of you understand
That
when I talk of this I do not do it to drag you down
Into
darkness. I just want to tell you that absence,
Which is
where we are now is survived. If only in memory.
Look:
what lives in the mind is existence.
If the body falls,
Fails
and suffers then the battle my friends rages on.
Do not
believe what you’re told. Believe what you can find out
And
still question. Just as she did, committed both to the film
I was
making and right now, to me, her
trapped son.
But if I
am, if we are, then let memory become moment.
For that
is all we have. That is living. And no false truth
Can
distract. As Anthony’s photograph becomes film,
The
story it tells keeps and cures her.
It
alleviates that cursed illness and returns her,
Like a
dream, while they act. She becomes a part
Of the
house that she has never left, bequeathed to me.
She is
the clothes I am wearing and she is everyone
There
who falls lost. I am talking to you all
Through
the screen and the photograph. It’s a window.
From the
other side, my Mum’s watching.
She at
last knows the answer.
It’s the
secret stars share:
Death is God.
David Erdos April 23rd
2020
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| Myself and my Mother |
For more poems from David Erdos visit The Corona Diaries collection
David Erdos is an actor, writer, director with over 300 professional credits. He is a published poet, playwright, essayist and illustrator. He has lectured on all disciplines in theatre and film for leading performing arts colleges, schools and universities around the world. His books include EASY VERSES FOR DIFFICULT TIMES, THE SCAR ON THE CLOUD, OIL ON SILVER, NEWS FROM MARS, CHANGING PLACES WITH LIGHT (penniless press) and BYZANTIUM with the photographer Max Reeves. He is a contributing editor for The International Times and maker of documentaries all over the world. David’s work has been acclaimed by many leading figures including Harold Pinter, Heathcote Williams, Alan Moore, Andrew Kotting, Chris Petit and Iain Sinclair in whose recent book THE LAST LONDON, David features. He can be reached at David.erdos@sky.com.
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David Erdos
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© David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.
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