Mother’s Daze Flowers

Summary

The website content is a reflective poem titled "Mother's Daze Flowers" by Wry Welwood, exploring the complexities of motherhood and maternal relationships, contrasting the flawed human aspects of mothers with the idealized, nurturing roles they play.

Abstract

"Mother's Daze Flowers" is a poignant piece that delves into the multifaceted nature of mothers, acknowledging their imperfections and the pain they can inflict, as well as the unconditional love and nurturing they provide. The poem recounts personal experiences with the author's own mother and contrasts them with the mother of his children. It touches on the evolution of his mother's capabilities and emotional availability, from her proficiency with infants to her detachment in later years. The narrative weaves through memories of European travels, moments of tenderness, and instances of emotional distance, ultimately leading to a cathartic letter written to his mother after her passing. The poem emphasizes the resilience of love and the enduring impact of mothers on their children's lives, despite the challenges and complexities inherent in their relationships.

Opinions

The author expresses a nuanced view of motherhood, recognizing both the positive and negative aspects of his mother's character and parenting.
There is a sense of gratitude towards the author's wife for her contrasting, steadfast mothering style.
The poem conveys a struggle with the idealization of mothers, juxtaposing this with the reality of their human flaws and limitations.
The author reflects on the cyclical nature of motherhood and its profound influence on the next generation's ability to love and nurture.
There is an underlying theme of forgiveness and reconciliation with the past, as the author comes to terms with his mother's legacy through a symbolic act of writing and burning a letter.
The poem criticizes the societal expectation of mothers as perpetually nurturing figures, while also paying homage to the life-giving and sustaining roles they fulfill.
The author distinguishes his work from AI-generated poetry, emphasizing the authenticity and personal significance of his writing.

soil spoiled and unspoiled

She nurtures with unwavering care except when she cannot or will knot ties that bind…so many kinds of mothers, sweet nurturers and others…sometimes they change over time. Mom was wonderful with babies, so I was told, not so much when they grew and could talk back…yet conversely she conversed most wonderfully, deeply, philosophically with me when I was a teen and between horns of dilemmas.

She took us through Europe on Five Dollars a Day back when that was actually possible. When I tried to hand her my baby daughter she said, “No thanks, I’ve held enough babies in my life.” Didn’t pick her up when she was crying. Mom gave up custody of me and my sisters when I was seven…so wounded she was she wounded us…how we ever raised healthy loving children I don’t know… In guardin’ our garden of illusions we forget our mothers are mortals who must hurt as well as love us…

yet the ideal is real, the breast and all the rest I have confessed, was addicted to finding substitutes anew beyond all numbering, lumbering to force tissue’s issues ’til I found my wife, my life (not without strife) the mother of our children, her mothering unconditional love, not smothering, so different from Mom’s, so steadfast it will last throughout our kids’ lives and beyond. Even wounded moms convey some balms, give us wombs with views, meals, realities… some of them give hugs, while others harshly demand them…she used to moan sensually when she insistently enlisted me for backrubs…so many kinds of mothers and mother-lovers…many of the latter only think they matter when aching through hole lives…dread blooms when mother’s love feels more like lover’s… Long after we split and she died I wrote a long overdue missive (not dismissive) composed from anger, understanding, grief, compassion, remorse, forgiveness, love and then I burned it (when one thing is destroyed in this world it is recreated in the otherworld where it can be seen and held or even read by gods or ancestors, our beloved dead). I wonder did she ever read it? Or was it lost in the compost? Still love multiplies, defies times and lies, bitter mistakes and fakes…it cleanses toxins from our living souls… Mothers start the mysteries rolling I know, so if I’m not extolling them as angels they still plant seeds of who we’ll be for battered and for verse…if perverse you find my words do be, know that I love mothers, worship those divine founts of ever-loving life while I hate the bitter pater of monstrous martial masculine machinations masticating corpses… but that is another poem… so thank you Mother you who gave me birth, inspired my flaws and worth, and thank you most the mother of my (our) children, transcendent incandescence beyond darkness. May it be so.

~ Wry Welwood 1st of May, 2023.

In response to the Paper Poetry prompt: Let’s Get Real.

This poem was not produced by or with ChatGPT or any other AI fakery, except for the five italicized words at the beginning which came from the AI-generated prompt poem.

Thanks to Carolyn Hastings for the prompt.

Let’s Get Real

Mother’s Daze Flowers

soil spoiled and unspoiled

Maternal Love Blooms

The ‘feel good’ fakery of ChatGPT poetry