Greenhouses

[Colm Roe]

In the greenhouse her crop drops
tender into a basket,
peas or beans 
green a satisfied pattern beneath her gaze.
Eyes half closed, her slow deep inhale consumes them;
she believes they lift to equal the union.

It's wicker of course, too old for years.
A treasure
measured in generations.

Pearls, also handed down
from mothers to daughters 
hang like rosary beads, 
around the oldest
most revered photograph
between the sink and the stove.

Her daughter's fingers aren't green.
So she'll grow, 
long for granddaughters
and hope all their greenhouses will be small.

 
 

 

[Matty11]

My mind-set reads the warmth and comfort of small worlds, though continuity and tradition not being pursued by the daughter darkens the future from the mother's perspective. The 'growing' is confined to the greenhouse...or rather the daughter does not chose a life of 'stink and stove'.

enjoyed

Phil

[Colm Roe]

Thanks for the read and comments Phil 

[indar]

This poem of yours arrives in the middle of my duties as the trustee of my mother's estate. She was 102, I am going through the cardboard boxes and boxes of what amounts to a family history that, in some cases spans a few generations. Little stuff, newspaper clippings, death certificates of her forebears, marriage licenses (she buried 3 husbands). What am I to make of your poem? Probably something more personal to me than you intended. But the meaning in the small events, the day to day care of one's own is what sums up a life. I can fall into global despair over world events and feel helpless to do something to make a change but if only everyone cared for their own small "crop" what a difference it would make.

[Dave]

Hey Colm
While I enjoyed the poem and like the single images it leaves me feeling a bit stupid in certain points or alternatively that the poem could draw its points together better.
Is the green in S 1 a verb or adjective or noun? It upsets the flow in my reading of the poem.
The last line of the first stanza I can't place at all, I must confess. They refers to beans and peas or to the eyes and which union. So far the meaning of the line is escaping me. Apparently not others.
In S 2 I get that the wicker must refer to the chair - it can't be anything else but it is placed in the poem a long way from the chair.
I would like to know more about the photo and pearls, as it is this is a bit telly: I am being told of the importance of the poem, but the photo itself remains abstract.
I presume from the last stanza the daughter is a child.

The poem has potential.

[Colm Roe]

Is the green in S 1 a verb or adjective or noun? It upsets the flow in my reading of the poem..........Verb.

The last line of the first stanza I can't place at all, I must confess. They refers to beans and peas or to the eyes and which union. So far the meaning of the line is escaping me. Apparently not others...........The peas and beans; like she believes there's a mutual love at play.
 
In S 2 I get that the wicker must refer to the chair - it can't be anything
else but it is placed in the poem a long way from the chair................It's a wicker basket, the one she collected the veg in S1.

I would like to know more about the photo and pearls, as it is this is a bit telly: I am being told of the importance of the poem, but the photo itself remains abstract.........Heirlooms (the basket & pearls) handed down. The specifics of the photo aren't important; it's the earliest/first photo of one of her ancestors...possibly the one who first owned the basket and/or pearls.
 
I presume from the last stanza the daughter is a child..........No (or at least not necessarily), the daughter has no interest in growing anything. So the N is hoping her daughter will have a daughter, and the traditions will continue.  

Thanks for your questions Dave. I suspected there might have been some issues connecting parts of the poem. You've assisted me with the areas to focus on 

 

[Colm Roe]

This poem of yours arrives in the middle of my duties as the trustee of my mother's estate. She was 102, I am going through the cardboard boxes and boxes of what amounts to a family history that, in some cases spans a few generations. Little stuff, newspaper clippings, death certificates of her forebears, marriage licenses (she buried 3 husbands). What am I to make of your poem? Probably something more personal to me than you intended. But the meaning in the small events, the day to day care of one's own is what sums up a life. I can fall into global despair over world events and feel helpless to do something to make a change but if only everyone cared for their own small "crop" what a difference it would make.

You're right it's not about personal experience. But it is about the way we'd like our children/grandchildren to continue doing some of the things we've done...especially ones we've found to be so beneficial for body, spirit and mind.
It must feel strange (if that's the right word) 'going through all her stuff'! I assume it's a mixture of laughter and tears...hope it's more laughter 
I did a 'what should my children not find in the attic when I'm dead' clear out a few years ago. There wasn't enough to make a bonfire...but I did manage to warm my hands a little 
  
 

[ajduclos]

Colm...

I am stunned and moved by the last line in your poem:

and hope all their greenhouses will be small

Takes my breath away

Aj

 

[Colm Roe]

Thanks Aj 

[Deb]

This poem of yours arrives in the middle of my duties as the trustee of my mother's estate. She was 102, I am going through the cardboard boxes and boxes of what amounts to a family history that, in some cases spans a few generations. Little stuff, newspaper clippings, death certificates of her forebears, marriage licenses (she buried 3 husbands). What am I to make of your poem? Probably something more personal to me than you intended. But the meaning in the small events, the day to day care of one's own is what sums up a life. I can fall into global despair over world events and feel helpless to do something to make a change but if only everyone cared for their own small "crop" what a difference it would make.

You're right it's not about personal experience. But it is about the way we'd like our children/grandchildren to continue doing some of the things we've done...especially ones we've found to be so beneficial for body, spirit and mind.
It must feel strange (if that's the right word) 'going through all her stuff'! I assume it's a mixture of laughter and tears...hope it's more laughter 
I did a 'what should my children not find in the attic when I'm dead' clear out a few years ago. There wasn't enough to make a bonfire...but I did manage to warm my hands a little 
  
  

Colm, I've read this four times and each time I take a little more from it and give the lines more possibilities.  That's the way my brain works. I suppose it's also the filling in that helps to bring your readers closer to a shared vision or similar memory to relate to.

This brings to mind my grandparent's huge garden that fed their big family and how the entire process has sown layers of riches into my being. They used crops to barter for dairy goods and flour. The traditions of growing dill and cucumbers then canning it all into mason jars to make the best dill pickles I ever ate are brought to mind. Thanks for jarring those memories (pun absolutely intended) because now I must pick my Aunt Susie's brain for the recipe and hope she still has it.

You've inspired me to write a poem about the garden. Thank you.


Indar, you almost have a found poem here in your comment to Colm.


​​​​​​​~Deb