Yesterday I went to a funeral. A friend’s mother. She was 88, frail, with dementia. It’s a bitter pill we have to swallow, aging, but, as the cliché goes, it’s better than the alternative – although perhaps less so towards the end. As is the way now, there was a slide show of her life. She was gorgeous – model gorgeous and very fond of dancing – when Sydney still had dance halls. So hard to pay tribute to a life in half an hour. My own mother died at 85, frail, with dementia. She was gorgeous – model gorgeous – with a gap between her front teeth like Lauren Hutton. When she died I would fall asleep clutching her wedding ring and when my father died three years later, I had his wedding ring fused with hers so I have something visible to hold the invisible.
Most eulogies are a timeline of someone’s life – facts, figures – the skeleton of our years here. It was a torment deciding what to write about my mother because those final words circle the universe forever and I didn’t want to talk about the skeleton, I wanted to talk about the flesh and bones. So, once more for you mum because love never ends.
” The danger in writing a eulogy, especially for someone like mum who had such a long life and whom you so love, is that you feel you need to cover everything in their lives to somehow “do them justice” and it can’t be done – not even if you had hours to say what is supposed to be said in these 5 or 10 minutes so I thought to myself, how would I respond if a stranger asked me to describe my mother and only gave me one sentence in which to do it”.
And the amazing thing is, I didn’t even hesitate. I would simply say, “She was a good woman”. At face value, you might think it a rather old-fashioned, almost mediocre description but sometimes it is the small, common words that we use all the time – and not always with much thought – that carry the most meaning.
So, here are some definitions from the dictionary for that one seemingly simple word and when you hear them, you will appreciate why it is such a fitting tribute to my mum:
Of high or superior quality Worthy of respect, honourable, admirable
Attractive Competent, skilled
Reliable Genuine, true
Pleasant, agreeable Of moral excellence, upright
Loyal, sympathetic Dependable
Warm-hearted, considerate Kind, gentle, gracious
Now before I make her sound too saintly, I must say, she did have a temper but children tend to bring that out in you. I know this will come as a shock to some of you but I have been known to be a little stubborn and headstrong and for a few years of my life, I thought my name had been changed to “asina”. For those of you without the benefit of Italian, it means “donkey” or “mule”.
My husband’s favourite memory of my mother is her rather brutally honest observation to him before we got married: “Daniela’s wonderful as long as she gets her own way and when she doesn’t, she turns into a viper”. I guess she thought that forewarned was forearmed.
She laughed, loudly and often. She had a dry, wicked sense of humour. She sang as she did the housework. She hated cooking. She loved my father faithfully and unwaveringly for over 52 years and had that love returned. She was, the most amazing mother, and in her honour, I would like to read a poem entitled, “A Mother’s Love”
A mother’s love determines how We love ourselves and others.
There is no sky we’ll ever see Not lit by that first love.
Stripped of love, the universe Would drive us mad with pain;
But we are born into a world That greets our cries with joy.
How much I owe you for the kiss That told me who I was!
The greatest gift–a love of life– Lay laughing in your eyes.
Because of you my world still has The soft grace of your smile;
And every wind of fortune bears The scent of your caress. ”
One day, someone will be talking like this about our lives – make sure you give them a wealth of material to work with.
I was 13 the first time I travelled internationally. It was 1971, Alitalia still flew out of Sydney and smoking was still allowed on planes. People would dress up to fly and it was still a big deal. We winged our way to Rome via Bombay, as it was called then, in a smoke-filled metal tube with no personal entertainment — and it was fabulous. It was my parents’ first visit back to the country of their birth in 14 years and my first encounter with my Italian extended family. I was hooked.
Travel has been one of the great joys of my life and if I’m not re-incarnated as a Travel Writer, I shall be bitterly disappointed. Could there be any greater bliss than being paid to visit the far-flung corners of this glorious, diverse planet? People dream about becoming wealthy so they can afford prestige cars, luxury homes, jewellery and clothes whereas I wistfully think I could live in a shack if only I could jet off to some new location whenever I wanted…. (School term permitting of course. Your daydreams have to be somewhat modified when there are other people to consider.)
This nostalgia springs from my girlfriend’s daughter having upped stakes for 12 months of travelling, as I did at 24. And for those 12 months I roamed the world like a true gypsy. For 12 months I answered to no-one but myself. No restraints, no responsibilities – just complete freedom to come, go, stay, eat, drink, take risks, learn, marvel, do whatever I wanted to do and be whoever I wanted to be. I wouldn’t exchange the life I have now but if a time machine were ever invented, I know where I’d be going. Plus, I was skinny.
Reflections of a face that is sometimes not your own…
I watch your eyes like twin chameleons change with shades of other lives.
The aquamarine of Grecian seas when indolence was all there was
and farmers wearing hats of straw worked the beaches selling fruit
to bodies baked to nutmeg brown.
The cloudy grey of Paris skies when baguettes and brie went hand in hand
with lazy walks along the Seine and an angry young man
whose Irish blood could not disguise the poet’s heart.
You turn your head to catch the time
and curse the need
to run your life to dull routines
when neon digits take the place
of sunlight through a shuttered door.
(C) Daniela Scalcon
“I am not the same having seen the moon shine on the other side of the world.” ― Mary Anne Radmacher
As we hurtle headlong towards St Valentine’s Day – named after the Patron Saint of florists and Hallmark cards – I was struck by a particular radio ad urging men to spend vast amounts of money on something (obviously not a very effective ad) because “flowers are boring and poetry is lame“. Poetry is lame? Hello? Are you kidding me? A young ‘suitor’ wrote me a poem in Year 12 and I still have it tucked away. It didn’t do him any good but that didn’t mean I wasn’t impressed with the gesture! Writing to and about the person you love has been a romantic staple from time immemorial and given a choice between a poem written especially for me or a stuffed teddy bear embroidered with “Be My Valentine” or a dinner shared with dozens of other couples staring soulfully into each other’s eyes, I know which I would choose. His dedication began, “You are a new colour in my rainbow, a different shade of me I have never seen before.” A little schmaltzy, maybe but lame – never. (Unless it’s along the lines of “Roses are red, Violets are blue, Nobody loves you like I do”, in which case it had better be accompanied by some serious jewellery….) And obviously I am not alone in my thinking. Just out of interest, I googled “poetry sites” and was rewarded with 67,300,000 results.
Anyway, after hearing the ad, it occurred to me that over the past couple of weeks, poetry and its various incarnations had been bobbing up and down in my line of vision as if to say, “Talk about me! Talk about me!”. So, to honour its persistence, I will.
Its push for attention started when I recently found an old exercise book of mine from 1972 when I was all of 14. Not only was it full of my own brilliant, adolescent poetic creations (Please visit my last post at) but also those of ‘real’ poets. Obviously my teenage hormones had commandeered my brain as most of them, predictably, involved love and longing except for one notable exception by the wonderful Dorothy Parker which showed the take-over hadn’t been complete. I don’t know if it would be considered ‘proper’ poetry but it must have tickled my fancy at the time as it still does:
By the time you say you’re his, Shivering and sighing
And he vows his passion is Infinite, undying –
Lady, make a note of this, One of you is lying.
When I visited the sites of bloggers who had liked “Back to the Future”, I was surprised and delighted, in equal parts, to find poetry very much alive and kicking in the blogosphere which shouldn’t really have been a surprise as poetry has been around since those party animals, the Babylonians, when the Epic of Gilgamesh was written in about 2000BC. For some of us, our only contact with poetry would have been in High School or University and having breathed a sigh of relief when those were over, moved on without so much as a backward glance. For others, it becomes a life-long companion. Whilst easy to technically define, its attraction is less so but one of the best attempts I can offer is, “Poetry is like taking a blindfold off and starting a new world.” Indeed — whether it be creating your own or immersing yourself in someone else’s.
I’m sure a great many of you have seen “Four Weddings and a Funeral”. It caused a frenzy, not over Hugh Grant (as if) but W.H. Auden, whose poem “Funeral Blues” was read during the eulogy. Read it and weep. From the first , the sorrowful imagery of each line compounds that of the one before until, in the span of four short stanzas, you are left with a world decimated by grief. And its impact never diminishes, no matter how many times you read it. http://allpoetry.com/Funeral-Blues
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Then I heard that Rod McKuen had died. Poet, author, song-writer, he was a staple of my adolescence and his words took up most of the pages in that exercise book. His poems were about love, nature and spirituality. Some would label him a little “mass market” but his poems were uncomplicated and accessible but I imagine these are the very reasons he had such great appeal.
Love I wear
As open as a wound,
a mad mistake I know
but love, like Lent
only comes to those of us
who still believe.
On top of all this, my son is doing his poetry module in English so you can see how the universe was prodding me in a particular direction! And for those of you still not convinced of poetry’s value, I give you this. And Happy Valentine’s day. I hope you get a poem.
Oh—-my—-God. I’m in the process of a MASSIVE clean-out of BIBLICAL proportions and I came across one of my English books from 1972. So…. I’m 14 years old – the same age as my son is now – and have written a poem. It’s a corker. You will understand why when you read it but in its innocence, it also sadly underlines how far the world has come in these 40 years or so when sexting and oral sex by kids as young as 13 is neither uncommon nor infrequent. With your indulgence, I present:
Beware of boys with wandering hands,
give them a good slap.
Beware of a boy with a long, dirty tongue,
he’s just a great big sap.
Beware of boys who take a mile
when all you’ve offered is but a smile.
You can put them in their place –
slow and steady wins the race.
Sure, go out and have some fun.
If it’s with a boy, there’s no harm done.
The nice ones brighten up your day.
They make you happy, content and gay.
But even so – be on your guard
’cause if you fall, you’ll fall hard.
But you know what? At its core, it’s bloody good advice. Have a great weekend everyone.