MOTHERHOOD
THE POMEGRANATE
Eavan Boland
ON MY FIRST SON
Ben Jonson
FUNERAL BLUES
W. H. Auden
NICK AND THE CANDLESTICK
Sylvia Plath
My first child is a daughter. I remember exactly the day we conceived. It was in the early hours of New Yearâs Day after returning home from a long, snow-filled walk from lower Manhattan (impossible to get a cab on New Yearâs Eve) where we celebrated the New Year eating bowls of pasta and sharing a bottle of Chianti at a local Italian restaurant. I know I am pregnant almost instantly. Iâve wanted to be a mother for as long as I can remember, hoping to create for my child the stable childhood that was stolen from me when my own father died. For months before she is born, I imagine her. We have our own secret language. When we are alone, lying on the couch or taking a walk in the park I feel her move to the rhythm of my breath. She hiccups when I do. I feel her blood churning in mine, changing the chemistry of my breathing, my digestion, the way I talk and feel. My stomach looks like Iâm hiding a bowling ball underneath my sweater. Itâs hard and full and when I walk I sometimes cup my hand underneath my panty-line to make sure she doesnât drop. I walk through the park and watch the young children playing in the playground or skating at the ice rink. Do all mothers imagine their daughters to be mini-versions of themselves? I hope she wonât have the traits I dislike about myself. I want her to be bright and confident. I am already giving her advice in my own head. I play music for her. I have a library of books all picked out. I walk past baby stores and stare at the mannequins, the little girls dressed in polka dot dresses and Mary Janes. When I give birth prematurely at thirty-two weeks, I know before I see her exactly what she will look like, and Iâm right. She has my round face and wide forehead. There are complications and Iâm rushed to the operating room for an emergency C-section. Her lungs collapse ten minutes after she is born. Against all we are prepared for, our baby does not survive. The idyllic image I have held of her and our lives together, our family, is shattered. For weeks I canât take it in. It is surely a combination of pregnancy hormones still ruling my body, producing milk in my breasts, making my uterus contract, and my desire to not quite let her go. I refuse to talk to anyone, rapt as I am in my private universe with my daughter, unable to fully accept that she is gone.
THE POMEGRANATE
Eavan Boland (1944â)
The only legend I have ever loved is
the story of a daughter lost in hell.
And found and rescued there.
Love and blackmail are the gist of it.
Ceres and Persephone the names.
And the best thing about the legend is
I can enter it anywhere. And have.
As a child in exile in
a city of fogs and strange consonants,
I read it first and at first I was
an exiled child in the crackling dusk of
the underworld, the stars blighted. Later
I walked out in a summer twilight
searching for my daughter at bed-time.
When she came running I was ready
to make any bargain to keep her.
I carried her back past whitebeams
and wasps and honey-scented buddleias.
But I was Ceres then and I knew
winter was in store for every leaf
on every tree on that road.
Was inescapable for each one we passed.
And for me.
It is winter
and the stars are hidden.
I climb the stairs and stand where I can see
my child asleep beside her teen magazines,
her can of Coke, her plate of uncut fruit.
The pomegranate! How did I forget it?
She could have come home and been safe
and ended the story and all
our heart-broken searching but she reached
out a hand and plucked a pomegranate.
She put out her hand and pulled down
the French sound for apple and
the noise of stone and the proof
that even in the place of death,
at the heart of legend, in the midst
of rocks full of unshed tears
ready to be diamonds by the time
the story was told, a child can be
hungry. I could warn her. There is still a chance.
The rain is cold. The road is flint-coloured.
The suburb has cars and cable television.
The veiled stars are above ground.
It is another world. But what else
can a mother give her daughter but such
beautiful rifts in time?
If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift.
The legend will be hers as well as mine.
She will enter it. As I have.
She will wake up. She will hold
the papery flushed skin in her hand.
And to her lips. I will say nothing.
This poem, by the Irish poet Eavan Boland, articulates the umbilical bond between a mother and a daughter. It is an open-ended poem. Any mother can enter it, whether her child is alive or dead. It takes as its understory the myth of Persephone and Demeter, the mother who lost her daughter to the underworld and bargains her back for half the year. Even after a child dies, a mother continues to live her life through imagination. As each year passes, she thinks of her, of what age sheâd be, imagining her among the girls she sees dressed in their school uniforms walking to school, or a girl walking hand in hand with a boy, wondering what she would look like, who she would become. âIf I defer the grief, I diminish the gift,â Boland expresses, juxtaposing the mythic underworld with the world of the everydayâof Diet Coke and teen magazines and cable television. About this poem and motherhood, Boland writes: âMotherhood was central for meâI mean as a poet, as well as in every other way. âThe Pomegranateâ came out of a series of realizations like that. And having said that, I donât think I realized at the beginning how much the perspective of motherhood could affect the poem in strictly aesthetic ways. Take for example the nature poem: when I was young and studying poetry at University I had a very orthodox, nineteenth century view of the nature poem. That the sensibility of the poet was instructed in some moral way by the natural world. And it was an idea I just couldnât use. I couldnât get close to it. But when my daughters were born, that all changed. I no longer felt I was observing nature in some Romantic-poet way. I felt I was right at the center of it: a participant in the whole world of change and renewal. âThe Pomegranateâ is a sort of nature poem in that wayâthereâs a deeply seasonal aspect to the raising of children. And I wanted to write that.â
After a year passes, we decide to try to have another baby. When I become pregnant again itâs different. Iâm apprehensive. I canât quite take it all in. We take precautions. Iâm on bed rest and am given a procedure to prevent premature labor. I am carrying a boy. Alone during the day, friends bring me muffins and coffee and stay for a bit to chat, but I canât really pay attention. Iâm already trapped in the otherworld, communing with my little boy. Judy, who comes to clean my house, helps me now with groceries and meals. As she is dusting the bedroom, she tells me that more than one clock in a room means death. There is an alarm clock propped on the nightstand like a little soldier of attention and on my bookshelf, a small Tiffany silver clock, a wedding gift commemorating the passing of time with elegant Roman numerals. I am propped on one side to keep the nutrients flowing for the baby and ask Judy to take the Tiffany clock and put it in the living room. Once she leaves and the apartment is quiet again, an ominous shadow descends, and the room darkens, though itâs not quite four. I am obsessed with my pregnancy. I look in the mirror when I get up to go to the bathroom and worry that I am carrying small. When I was pregnant with my daughter, I was almost twice the size. The next morning, Judy tells me that boys carry differently than girls, but I donât believe her. I call the doctor because now I think I donât remember the last time I felt the baby move. I press my hand on the lower part of my abdomen to see if he will respond, but there is no movement. It all happens quickly. Iâm in a cab, then the doctorâs office getting a stress test, and within the hour in the cool antiseptic operating room of the hospital being prepped for a C-section. It turns out that all the hours of lying on one side was futile. The baby isnât getting enough nutrients and has to come out of the compressed womb of my birthwater into the light of day to grow in an incubator. It is too soon. My boy is born at twenty-six weeks. Heâs so tiny you could hold him in one hand, and yet his features are unmistakably those of my husbandâs. Within twenty-four hours, his kidneys fail him. âMy sin was too much hope of thee,â writes Ben Jonson, a contemporary of Shakespeare, in this moving exploration of the loss o...