Calling Carl Jung and My Mother

Some mornings snow comes to the trees like an illness. Or is this my blindness playing tricks? It hardly matters. Look: here comes a white eel across the snow. And childhood dread is in its attached sleigh, tricked out as a wind up monkey with cymbals. He asks himself will the day get better? He wants to call Carl Jung on the phone. And if he could call Jung why not his dead parents? Why not Steven Biko? He’d like to talk to the great, dead human rights activists. Instead he has a toy monkey of the imagination.

Tietääkseni en ollut syntyessäni yksin. (Pentti Saarikoski)

“As far as I know I was not alone when I was born.”

No Pentti, your mother was there. And who knows, a doctor, a midwife?

Occasionally poetic lines sound so good one writes them in fealty to the half mystical and you leave out your mother. Even women writers can do this. The imagination is like one of those old time radio magnets that eliminates plurality.

Of the dark present day I admit my mother. She was a sufferer who had a sense of humor.

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