They have teased music from a classical guitar,
woven brightly dyed wool into a winter knit,
and pencilled themselves into a sketch.
They cover my face now, as I pose
before a speckled, frameless mirror
tucked away, out of sight, under the stairs.
She’s there, somewhere in the shadows,
the one whose fingers plucked and drew –
how did they stiffen into wrinkled claws?
I move my hands, reveal my mother’s face,
time-stamped with crow’s feet and a trace
of the sparkle of her timeless, girlish smile.
Kim M. Russell, 8th September 2020
My response to dVerse Poets Pub Poetics: Come and take a selfie!
Sarah is our host this Tuesday with a request for self-portrait poems. She says that there are self-portrait poem generators on-line, in which one simply completes some boxes to make a poem, but she wants more.
Sarah has given us examples of self-portrait poems, organised from the more concrete to the more abstract. Barri Armitage made such a brilliant job of her glasses, I won’t even start on mine.
Sarah would like detailed descriptions of what we see in the mirror; we can use it as a springboard to head off in an unexpected direction.
writing in north norfolk 
Oh, Kim, this is very poignant. I tend to see my grandmother, not my mother, but I know that feeling. It’s kind of strange and kind of lovely to have that connection. I like the way you led with your hands – they are so important, and it sounds like you have used yours well. I like your speckled mirror, hidden away. Thank you for sharing this.
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I see my grandmother too, but mostly Mum. It is lovely to have that connection but it does make me sad.
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This is most wonderful… to see your ancestors in yourself is something we both love and hate… it’s amazing looking back and realizing how age is changing us…
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Thank you, Bjorn. Most days it’s a lovely surprise, sometimes it makes me cry.
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How lovely to see your mother in your own face.
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It’s a daily surptise!
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Loving this! I remember as a young girl, sitting in church with my mother and looking at my pretty hands – so smooth – and then at hers and seeing blue veins and wrinkles. Oh how time circles round….now those are my hands. I like how you talk about your hands here….and then revealing some of your mother as you look into the mirror.
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My hands aged first, they are the give-away. My face has very few wrinkles and the silver in my hair is mostly underneath – I would love a full head of silver-white, but I don’t want to get it dyed. I’ll just have to be patient!
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I love your selfie, Kim, very earthy and grounding.
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Thank you, Lisa.
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Your mother’s daughter is a master poet, KR.
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Thanks Ron! 🙂
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Oh! This is gorgeously evocative, Kim 💝 I love; “They have teased music from a classical guitar,” it tells so much about your passionate and creative soul! Time changes us, yes 🙂 but I like to believe that even though our body, our skin changes we are alight and glowing nevertheless.
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Thank you so much, Sanaa! 🙂
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Such beautiful, solemn and lovely writing. Your first stanza was amazing and it intrigued me greatly with the musical imagery:
“They have teased music from a classical guitar,
woven brightly dyed wool into a winter knit,
and pencilled themselves into a sketch.”
If that isn’t a killer opening for a poem, then I don’t know what is. The faces we see tracing back to family, it is quite an experience to see the traits, combined, that make us who we are. Beautiful, mesmerizing poem!
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Thank you so very much, Lucy. Such a lovely comment to give me a great start to the day.
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Lovely, Kim, evocative and true. We all grow older, if we live long enough,.
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Thank you! Wonderful to see you back and reading, Jane. I hope you feel well enough to post poetry soon.,
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me,too,Kim!
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🤗
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This is touching, Kim. I’m sure you’ve retained that sparkle!
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Thank you, and I hope so, Bev.
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Wow Kim, splendid images you have put forth herein. Such a richness of life you have embraced. Wonderful poem… 🙂
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Thank you so much, Rob! 😉
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This poem reminds me of the day, in my 50’s, when I looked in the mirror and saw my grandmother’s face. I remember that moment clear as day.
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It’s funny, most days it’s my mum but my nan pops up every now and again, just to surprise me.
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I like how you focused on your hands and all that they have done, how they used to look, and how they look now. A gratitude-filled tribute despite the “wrinkled claws.” 🙂
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Thank you so much, Jenna. My hands starting aging before anything else! Maybe they are just well-used! 😉
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It is interesting how those parental features creep up on us as we age! I guess that is to be expected. Very nice work on your poem. Love the images of the ragged old fingers becoming wrinkled claws. Arthritis does strange things to bones and joints! .
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Thank you, Dwight. When you’re a child, other people comment on how much you look like your mum or dad and you wonder what they’re going on about. And then one day it hits you.
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Yes, genetic duplication for sure! The mirror is the only one who doesn’t ever lie to you!
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The first time I ‘saw’ my mother in my face I was flooded with emotion. Shock that I had not noticed earlier, pride knowing as I aged I looked like her, fear the dementia that took her would take me. Your poem is quite special.
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Thank you kindly, Helen.
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You seeing your mother when you look at the mirror felt so personal and tender to me. Thank you for this poem which revealed you. ❤
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Thank you for such a lovely comment!
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It’s a beautiful take on the self-portrait, to tell it from the hands’ perspective. Do you still play guitar? Whether you do or not, you continue to make music with your poetry.
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Thank you, Ingrid. I stopped playing guitar after I had a stroke in my early thirties and my left hand doesn’t always do what it should. I gave my guitar to my neighbour’s son, who made good use of it.
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Sorry to hear that! I used to play the guitar as a love-struck teenager. I bought my son a guitar but he’s not interested in practicing at the moment so I have had a little play now and again during the lockdown, but I’m rather rusty!
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I see my father when I cry and my grandmother’s ice, of which takes intention to melt.
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Like Sarah, I don’t look in mirrors for me, just to poke at something, a floating eyelash, a mosquito bite. And it’s true, more often than not it’s my mother I see not myself 🙂
This is poignant, the transition, that it has to involve the lose of suppleness.
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Thanks Jane. I’m not a fan of mirrors.
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From you responses here, I understand how that mirror can be either a blessing or a curse – fondness, loss, or loathing depending on the person, and likely depending on the moment.
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Definitely.
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