20 Apr 2016

Non est Consummatum



She's done it again.
My mother: Lady Lazarus.
Back from the hospital, back from the brink.

A sort of slow-walking miracle,
With skin as dry as a Nazi lampshade.
Still smiling with a full set of teeth.

If dying is an art like everything else,
Then it's one like cooking she does exceptionally badly,
Suspended in a grey twilight of forgetfulness.


Note: I have obviously sampled Sylvia Plath's magnificent poem 'Lady Lazarus', first published (posthumously) in Ariel (Faber and Faber, 1965). Although this has been done without permission, I hope it shows my affection and admiration for Plath whose writing so often provides inspiration and, indeed, solace in times of crisis.      


1 comment:

  1. This lady has always been exceptionally good to me, and I love her very much.
    I also know that her son will look after her because he is a chip off the old block...
    I wish them both many happy days.
    Un abrazo enorme desde Barcelona.

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