Poetry Friday: Housekeeping (Jeannine Atkins)

I’m only a third of the way through Borrowed Names (Henry Holt, 2010), Jeannine Atkins‘ beautiful poetry/biography collection focusing on three women–Laura Ingalls Wilder, Madam C.J. Walker, and Marie Curie–and their relationships with their daughters.

These poems are so conversational they almost feel like prose poems. But I hate to say that, because I don’t like prose poems, and I really like these. I’ve only read the first section, on Wilder, and I can’t wait to read the rest of the book!

Here’s one of the poems I love, about Wilder’s daughter, Rose. (Note: Laura was known as Bess.)

Housekeeping The girl named for the rare rose on the prairie who once click-clacked in her mother’s shoes who tried on her aprons and dresses stamps her feet on the mat before she enters the kitchen. Mama Bess sweeps with the diligence of a criminal hiding tracks. She presses red-checkered cloths to cover the table so no one can see its beautiful wood. She smooths an old quilt over the sofa so the fabric won’t fade, all the while humming songs her father played on the fiddle, some of traveling and some of home. She asks, What did you do today? Rose’s forehead turns hot. It’s a trap, not a question. Mama’s goals are etched on the skin between her eyes. Mama’s gingham blouse smells of ironing. She crimps the edges of her pie evenly dusts the china shepherdess so its golden hair glows. She can grow tomatoes without spots and raise prizewinning chickens but she can’t add Rose to her collection of strong father, patient mother, saintly aunts. Rose can’t pretend that silver linings can hold back disasters. She won’t be part of her mother’s perfect story. –Jeannine Atkins, all rights reserved

The beautiful, tension-filled poems are lovely and sometimes painful. The story of a troubled relationship finding resolution in shared stories is exquisite.

Here are just a few more bits that really captured me:

Stuck-up Mary Ellen Tucker,
with gold glints in her hair,
chants, Farm girl.
Rose hides at lunch,
so town girls can’t see she doesn’t have
butter on her bread.

…………………………………………

At the end of a sentence, she squeezes her lips
like a knot with no spare room.

…………………………………………

She’s written hundreds of articles, a few books,
but no words that echo her heartbeat or pulse.

………………………………………..

Too much work always kept her from watching
petals fall of an apple tree,
or even admiring the shapes of carrots
cut for soup, the clean smell of celery.
Now for almost half a minute Mama
attends to gazing.
This is a woman Rose hardly knows,
the scent of jam on her pale hands.

………………………………………

Whatever happens now
here’s the grace:
A writer can change even a burning house,
depending on where she begins or ends her story.

……………………………………..

So true. Jeannine’s writing really touched me, and where she begins and ends Rose and Bess’ story feels just right.

The honest and heartfelt Susan Taylor Brown is hosting Poetry Friday this week, so stop by to check out all the wonderful words.