POETRY

Letter To My Mama

I have inherited an ancient loneliness.

an ancient pain of being. I am

a wound open and red with knowing

for F.S B.

I bleed. į bleed and an old woman's voice whispers hoarsely "There will be no nest again this month " Month by month, I willfully deny continuity.

Outside my window. I watch trees shed leaves, exhausted with the responsibility of becoming red In the West of introspection,

the cup of moon fills quarter to full with milk.

I remember my Mama candling eggs between

washing muddy boots and cooking pots of potato soup. On the farm there were roses growing wild

in thick jungles of briars and blooming. they languished unashamed late into Autumn.

Mama and I picked winesap apples to scent

the hope chest of cedar and leather

that Grandmother brought on the boat from Yugoslavia We opened the lid to layers of lace, linen and wool waiting. This is what it means to be

a woman," said Mama, pulling out the shaw!

of her mother, a shroud she went to the grave with-

out. "I wouldn't let myself wear this; I kept it for you to pass on to your daughter."

Mama, when you and Papa and the boys considered

moving from town to country you wanted

a home with a hearth

and waited until you found our house.

There was a fireplace in every room. You closed each one and then, gave birth to me.

knowing the word meant ute in some foreign language

wanting his first daughter and last child to be Eve You would have called me Barbara.

The stranger, after your mother

I was free of pressure when your oldest son delivered a child to call you Grandma

and now. Mama, there is no need

for a husband in my dreams of completion ||

Outside my window. Winter storms answer prayers uttered deep within the ground In the North of wisdom.

a thousand voices rumble gossiping. They say, "A stitch in lime saves nine.'

"Better a blow from a wise man than a kiss from a fool." "Little children, little joys;

Bigger children, bigger sorrows." Theirs are the old proverbs of wives' lore. How long Mama, have you lived by these?

In early mornings the house smelled warm with yeast sprouting dough into loaves. From the dark belly of the oven came bread that would become us. Sometimes

I joked of too much salt; watching

the cloud on your face letting go

to the kneading rhythm of hands

releasing a rain of tears that bound the bread together

I asked, "Why are you crying? What have I done?"

I baked along side you for a while, but only

one loaf in a play pan for Papa, who would eat my bread first, not because it was better, but that his daughter

had made this for him. I felt so wanted.

Then, i would leave you in the house as did Papa and the boys

for the fields and pastures of open space. Filling the, house with your body, Mama, you didn't come outside because

you could not consume the world.

nd harboring in arms the wants

ot a husband another child grown old

Pest was the relentless apology for time, Then I asked.

Why don't you draw anymore?

Why don't you play the piano and sing? '

Why don I you ever go out dancing?"

Over and over you said. "I had my fun when I was young Fulfillment was stored in hope chests in the guest room

For years, pity made me feel better.

just as pain made you feel real

I did not have to wait for your dea.h

to mark the point of life.

where I found my own division.

In each direction I find: no fault.

Season after season I know: no blame. IV.

The world is a Spring of green fields! In the South of innocence, there is a sion I am seeking.

In doing the work I was bred for.

I will outlive my native generation

I am a woman giving birth to myself

I am not without a friend/lover:

Whose run of voice is honey in the sun;

and chestnut mane is long, lovely

scented deeply musk, like horses in Summer;

Who warms my cold hands with breath

and holds me until I take root

With her, I am realizing the possibility

of becoming bone and sky.

I return to a love that is an echo of knowing-

a woman's love: as sister, mother and daughter again.

Mama, "I place my head in the lap

from which I came forth,

and thank you for my life."

And 75

There will be no daughters or sons, Mama.

I will not breed as a stay against Winter. Papa named me Evelyn

Outside my window, in the East of illumination, Summer leans on one elbow and

rolls over the hills into dawn.

Mama, your weeks unravelled domestic routine: Washing was Monday, ironing was Tuesday and tomorrow was mending, baking, cleaning. Weekends were to catch up on what was leftover to do. You were never quite allowed to finish with days

of children pulling the hem of your dress to kiss wandering wounds and nights

-Evelyn Hayes

CAROL SILER: TAMING MONSTERS

I tend to deal with images that have startled or scared me in one way or another. Lizards, fish, oceans, New York City, and living in Richmond -all border on the nightmare. I equate myself to the cave people sito drew animals in order to conquer then, in the field draw physical and mental hameras in order to understand them in my head.

Carol Siler

fish victim is fresh (looks like it was just painted) and has only as much detail as it needs the white paper

lets the viewer', imagination complete the pictur.

זי:וּן

יז'

ני

Carol says she enjoy working on umple, 小 meditative images In her earlier work, she com rated on Sjaler more intimate pieces Later her projects became larger, more expansive, and ex

tentat. Having been involved in her artiste el for the past five vois, she ei »duated from Kent In 197 Recently she has stat eith it'hat She Wars. Her show at Coven wall contina thr. gel August 18.

Gene Ipston

Maki fint of stopping by Coventry Art Gallery, 1816 Covery Road, to see the work currently displayed there by Carol Siler. The works in her show are all dimensional drawings fin the broad sense of the di on paper, full of the spirit of exploration. F. is an artist who is experimenting with materia nd imagery, who has not settled into one kind of fistic thing.

The two larger works in the show, “Sargasso Sea” and **Middle Ocean" (cach approximately the size of a large sheet of drawing paper) are similar in style to "color field" paintings. The whole surface is covered with a non-mechanical repetition of similar small fishshapes. Texture is the predominant idea, and the whiteness of the paper showing in between the color marks brightens the overall effect.

The smaller works vary from stark black on white to soft combinations of color, from obvious images (she likes fish and chickens) to abstract or implied images. The ones that work best for me are those with a sense of humor.

My favorite work in the show is a watercolor portrait of a tish victim of Skylab. The essence of a good watercolor (by my standards) is understatement-saying only as much as is needed to convey the idea. It's like noetry rather than narrative. Carol Siler's

Page 10/What She'Wants/ August 199

COGGO

View on Venus: Pen and ink drawing by Carol Sher