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Season 1 Finale! S.1, E.8: Poetry from my mother's birthday, August 17th, 2014 & 2016
Season 1’s End: A Tribute to My MomMy parents! Now that they’ve passed, I try to surround myself with their pictures because I miss them deeply. Recently, I heard on a podcast that true wisdom comes from forgiving your parents. While I don't claim to be wise, I can say that I've learned a great deal from forgiving my parents for their imperfections, for being human, for their shortcomings and mistakes, for the times they hit me, called me worthless, ugly, and stupid, for not valuing me, and for not standing up for me. It has taken me several decades to reach this realization. Forgiving my parents has been a long and arduous journey, akin to weeding a garden.
Happy birthday, Mommy (from Lyon)
Hope you liked walking through streets
with Eileen and I.
You even followed me into
that Gallic-Roman museum
and
watched over my shoulders
as I drew
ancient Roman
artifacts.
"All stone," you told me
"too much."
But we went into that church
high on the hill.
A long tapered candle
I lit in your name
for one Euro
and you were gone.
Guess there was someone
calling for you.
You went out in a "poof"
like when you've made
your birthday wish,
on your birthday cake.
//
August 17, 2014, at 7:23 a.m. in Lyon
Morning Poem #57
August 17, 1927
I do not know the weather
conditions on that day, nor
can I recall what day it was
that my mother brought me
into this world, but
it was a force of effort
which I would experience
myself
having brought in about
twelve children of my own,
but really some not surviving,
which always has made me sad.
On this day, I'll tell you that my
brothers and sisters welcomed me
if not, they were perhaps
jealous?
But I am the last of all my
mother's children, so
I must be the best and last.
I tell my daughter stories
because I can't remember details
nor can I find the words in her language--English--to describe relationships
to people or things
the way I can in my language.
I know, I've said this before, but
in my language
we have words for those
interrelated things!
Maybe I told my youngest
daughter how all the doctors:
witch doctors, midwives and
physicians
ran to our home to help
my mother in labor:
Because I knew,
somehow,
there was a big, dramatic
commotion stirring,
then all things stopped
the minute
I breathed
into the air.
That was the true story.
However, I told my daughter
I was born under a lily pad,
and was found by my father
who discovered me on top
of that lily pad
and that I was
covering myself with the petals
of the flower that grew from it,
silly me, huh?
I also forgot
to tell her that
I had fairy wings
//
August 17, 2015 at 8:08 a.m.
Morning Poem #372
Get full access to The MorningPoems Podcast + Morning Poems by Tess McCarthy at tessmccarthy.substack.com/subscribe
SYNOPSIS
In Season 1, Episode 8 of the Morning Poems Podcast, Tess still talks about Emily Dickinson. She candidly discusses her mission's exhaustion, her COVID bouts, and her reflections on parental forgiveness. Celebrating her mother's birthday, the poet reads two heartfelt poems from 2014 and 2016, reminiscing about a visit to Lyon and embodying her mother's voice in the Lyon poem.
Shoutouts to some Substack accounts and a heads-up to listeners about an upcoming poetry series called Witchlore in Season 2.
00:00 Introduction and Host Background
01:32 Housekeeping and Social Media
02:51 Shout Outs and Inspirations
04:08 Episode Recap and Personal Reflections
04:51 Mommy's Birthday and Poetry Reading
13:47 Poem: Happy Birthday Mommy from Lyon
15:03 Poem: August 17, 1927
17:39 Conclusion and Season 2 Teaser
Get full access to The MorningPoems Podcast + Morning Poems by Tess McCarthy at tessmccarthy.substack.com/subscribe
View all episodes
By T. McCarthy. She/theySeason 1’s End: A Tribute to My MomMy parents! Now that they’ve passed, I try to surround myself with their pictures because I miss them deeply. Recently, I heard on a podcast that true wisdom comes from forgiving your parents. While I don't claim to be wise, I can say that I've learned a great deal from forgiving my parents for their imperfections, for being human, for their shortcomings and mistakes, for the times they hit me, called me worthless, ugly, and stupid, for not valuing me, and for not standing up for me. It has taken me several decades to reach this realization. Forgiving my parents has been a long and arduous journey, akin to weeding a garden.
Happy birthday, Mommy (from Lyon)
Hope you liked walking through streets
with Eileen and I.
You even followed me into
that Gallic-Roman museum
and
watched over my shoulders
as I drew
ancient Roman
artifacts.
"All stone," you told me
"too much."
But we went into that church
high on the hill.
A long tapered candle
I lit in your name
for one Euro
and you were gone.
Guess there was someone
calling for you.
You went out in a "poof"
like when you've made
your birthday wish,
on your birthday cake.
//
August 17, 2014, at 7:23 a.m. in Lyon
Morning Poem #57
August 17, 1927
I do not know the weather
conditions on that day, nor
can I recall what day it was
that my mother brought me
into this world, but
it was a force of effort
which I would experience
myself
having brought in about
twelve children of my own,
but really some not surviving,
which always has made me sad.
On this day, I'll tell you that my
brothers and sisters welcomed me
if not, they were perhaps
jealous?
But I am the last of all my
mother's children, so
I must be the best and last.
I tell my daughter stories
because I can't remember details
nor can I find the words in her language--English--to describe relationships
to people or things
the way I can in my language.
I know, I've said this before, but
in my language
we have words for those
interrelated things!
Maybe I told my youngest
daughter how all the doctors:
witch doctors, midwives and
physicians
ran to our home to help
my mother in labor:
Because I knew,
somehow,
there was a big, dramatic
commotion stirring,
then all things stopped
the minute
I breathed
into the air.
That was the true story.
However, I told my daughter
I was born under a lily pad,
and was found by my father
who discovered me on top
of that lily pad
and that I was
covering myself with the petals
of the flower that grew from it,
silly me, huh?
I also forgot
to tell her that
I had fairy wings
//
August 17, 2015 at 8:08 a.m.
Morning Poem #372
Get full access to The MorningPoems Podcast + Morning Poems by Tess McCarthy at tessmccarthy.substack.com/subscribe
SYNOPSIS
In Season 1, Episode 8 of the Morning Poems Podcast, Tess still talks about Emily Dickinson. She candidly discusses her mission's exhaustion, her COVID bouts, and her reflections on parental forgiveness. Celebrating her mother's birthday, the poet reads two heartfelt poems from 2014 and 2016, reminiscing about a visit to Lyon and embodying her mother's voice in the Lyon poem.
Shoutouts to some Substack accounts and a heads-up to listeners about an upcoming poetry series called Witchlore in Season 2.
00:00 Introduction and Host Background
01:32 Housekeeping and Social Media
02:51 Shout Outs and Inspirations
04:08 Episode Recap and Personal Reflections
04:51 Mommy's Birthday and Poetry Reading
13:47 Poem: Happy Birthday Mommy from Lyon
15:03 Poem: August 17, 1927
17:39 Conclusion and Season 2 Teaser
Get full access to The MorningPoems Podcast + Morning Poems by Tess McCarthy at tessmccarthy.substack.com/subscribe