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My Mother’s Keeper | Demet Divaroren's Blog
https://demetdivaroren.wordpress.com/2014/02/03/my-mothers-keeper
Demet Divaroren's Blog. Chipped words, crooked lines…. My Mother’s Keeper. February 3, 2014 in Uncategorized. Tags: creative non fiction. The Big Issue My Word. At 48, Mum is 15 years older than me. As a child, I was the keeper of her secrets and her tears when she longed for family in Turkey and homesickness weighed her down. As a teen, we butted heads like siblings. As adults, we visualised dreams in Turkish coffee cups and followed the grainy trail to each other’s hearts. The doctor ordered a mammogram.
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WaddaMyDoinEre: October 2011
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Friday, October 7, 2011. The pants of my. When I put it on. To button my pants. Other people’s problems are. For errors to be fixed. Holds a view of an. When the time comes. And my computer is. And my work day. I take off my. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). View my complete profile. Advice from the Emdashqueen. Tim the thought train wrecker. Picture Window template. Powered by Blogger.
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WaddaMyDoinEre: January 2011
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Thursday, January 20, 2011. Big man sings my blues - for Rory. Some parts of this may be a little contrived, but if ya don't know his music, you won't get it anyway. (http:/ www.roryellis.com/). The unsheltered part of the beer garden. There are various groups under the. Listening to the juke box. But I am out in the cold. Waiting for the big man on the stage. To open his throat. He does not disappoint. My voice is a waterfall. Pouring out along with his. A smile hurts my jaw. I only notice the rabble.
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WaddaMyDoinEre: April 2010
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Tuesday, April 27, 2010. First Words from the Lines of a Love Poem. Thursday, April 22, 2010. Of a love poem. The pains of growth. And alcohol fuelled revelry. Put down in words. Lay my head down and. Of a love poem. Wednesday, April 21, 2010. These stories are true. As such can be known. Humanity’s war on. The individual’s battle. But one more step to. All coming to you live. Tuesday, April 20, 2010. My pen at first. On floor upon which. It learns to crawl. Watch the grown ups. Pen steadies on page.
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WaddaMyDoinEre: November 2011
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Wednesday, November 30, 2011. I am surrounded by. But nobody notices my. The barbs of these. Prickly bushes around me. Tear at my skin leave. Noxious residue behind to. Coming to a head. Ichor release offends those. Yet those squeaky wheels. Cry out for my blood. That they travel upon. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). View my complete profile. Advice from the Emdashqueen. Tim the thought train wrecker. Picture Window template. Powered by Blogger.
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WaddaMyDoinEre: May 2010
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Friday, May 28, 2010. I walk this once familiar street. Follow the rhythm of my feet. As I feel the pulse, I feel the beat. Of the life that grows where people meet. But the beat changes. The beat may grow, or the beat may slow. But the beat changes. The beat changed between us. The beat of mine, the beat of yours. Asynchronous at the last. Each holding to the idea. The remnants of what once was. Reaching for the other holding them close. To feel the pulse. But feeling the beat change. Felt as a fluidity.
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WaddaMyDoinEre: That poem (2007)
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Saturday, August 15, 2015. It wasn’t that he was a bad poet. He was actually quite good. Most audiences listened and he’d even had the occasional request. But as he found new audiences that he had never before thought open to him. He started to feel the need to outdo himself each time. This was when he started to work on the great poem. The one that would stamp his mark on this world he’d found. At the back of bars and in cafés. He wanted it to have everything. He wanted to transform the audience. He tau...
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WaddaMyDoinEre: February 2012
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Monday, February 20, 2012. To those i have not known. Note: orig written 1998 - true story and unedited. I did once see a man standing in the street. Not breaking stride I passed him without giving him his worth. My ears they were not open to the words that issued forth. When second time I saw him, a discovery of kind. In a room full of wordsmiths this gentleman I spied. And my ears were finally open to everything I heard. A warrior was he, his weapons were his words. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom).
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WaddaMyDoinEre: October 2010
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Friday, October 22, 2010. It stings so bad. I am sick of the clap. And I’m not talking about that nasty infection that bitch gave me that time. I got ointments and some nice pills for that and it cleared up just fine. Thank you very much. I mean this reflexive slapping of. On hand upon the other. Every time someone stands to read. Regardless of what they say and do. I am sick of the recognition clap. The supportive, good on you for doing it. That makes bad poets think they were good. Give me your silence.
