Mondays, in her wash house
between the garden and the hen coop,
my grandmother sang,
“Mine eyes have seen the glory
of the coming of the Lord,” while she
pulled khaki pants and denim shirts
through her wringer washing machine.
Work clothes that bore a day’s
cargo of sweat and red dirt,
without daring to wrinkle.
Before the dust kicked up
or the storm blew in, she unpinned
the wind stiffened clothes, singing
“I’m forever blowing bubbles,
pretty bubbles in the air.”
Tuesdays, brown beans and salt pork
hissed on the stove as she sprinkled
and rolled enough clothes
to fill two bushel fruit baskets.
Only towels and wash rags
escaped the grip of her mangle,
the hot kiss of her iron
as she sang, “If I had the wings
of an angel, through this prison
wall I would fly.”
Some days I crave the smell of steam
rising from clean cotton,
long for the steady slow pulse
of Tuesday routine:
pillowcase, tablecloth, handkerchief,
press, fold, press, fold, press;
rote progression of blouses and shirts,
facing, yoke, facing,
back, “Swing low, sweet chariot,
coming for to carry me home.”
Swing low. Carry me home. Swing low.
From Mansions, by Donna Hilbert, 1990, Event Horizon Press.
A month or so ago I went to a book festival. I never go to book festivals. Choosing which of three breakout sessions to sit in, I picked a poetry reading. I never pick poetry readings. The room was small. The chair was plastic. I questioned my whereabouts.
A woman spoke and called my name. She gave my address; she typed in my password. She transfused my blood; she sequenced my DNA. I was home.
She is Donna Hilbert, and this is her poem. It’s not enough to say I love this poem, or say that I love Donna Hilbert. It’s not enough to share her. No, it’s not enough. I have to give her to you. Then you can come home too.
Leave a comment or three or four on this post by this Sunday, June 20 to win a copy of one of Donna’s published poetry collections. I promise you, it’s not like the poetry you wouldn’t pick. It is the poetry of you. But leave your comment quickly, because I might change my mind and keep the prize. I like to be at home all by myself.
Photo credit: The amazing Terri Fischer, who also reminds me of me, except I remind her of her aunt, the bright-eyed nun who always knows the way home.
Deadline for comments is Sunday, June 20 because that was my mom’s birthday. Welcome home, Mom.
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beautiful. i miss my mom. thank you for sharing donna’s poem.
Comment by sarah — June 15, 2010 @ 8:39 pm
Beautiful words! I can smell the fresh laundry and hear the sheets blowing in the wind… Nice, thanks for sharing and the giveaway!
Comment by Izzy — June 15, 2010 @ 8:59 pm
(insert happy gasp here!) Donna just sent me one of her poems for “The Project”, and I was thrilled to see her work, and to “meet” her. She is a kindred soul indeed. Pick me! Pick me!
Comment by Emme@The Found Art Project — June 15, 2010 @ 9:00 pm
Sometimes small things seen from wise eyes give us the gift of being, to use in our own lives. Just until recently have I overcome ‘the laundry burden’ and found zen in neatly folding and caring for the items that present my family to the world.
Comment by Stacey — June 15, 2010 @ 9:03 pm
Beautiful! Now wiping the tears…. thank you!
Comment by Kimberly — June 15, 2010 @ 9:04 pm
How beautiful to continue to find home. Thank you for offering it to us.
Comment by Lisa — June 15, 2010 @ 9:05 pm
I can see why you appreciate donna’s poetry. thank you for the opportunity to win a copy of her book.
Comment by elizabeth — June 15, 2010 @ 9:09 pm
Beautiful, thank you for sharing!
Comment by Rachel @ Suburban Yogini — June 15, 2010 @ 9:11 pm
Oh how I love to find out about another poet – pick me! I want to bring her home!!
xoxo
Comment by stef — June 15, 2010 @ 9:28 pm
I am finding home, again and again and again. The gift of poetry, the written word, the images of home, land me where I am. Thank you.
Comment by nicki wilkins — June 15, 2010 @ 9:32 pm
Sounds like my kind of poetry. I’m interested! Thanks!
Comment by Donn King — June 15, 2010 @ 10:00 pm
This poetry is utterly breathtaking. Thank you so much for bringing my attention to another incredible artist.
Comment by Sara — June 15, 2010 @ 10:25 pm
How I miss my watching my grandmother (I’m named for her) and my mother who died last September. I remember as a child watching my mother sprinkle the linens using a dr. pepper bottle with holes punched into the lid. The linens would go in the fridge til she was ready to iron. My grandmother didn’t sing hymns but while my parents were on vacation she did iron my father’s jockstrap.
I don’t usually go for “poetry” but “talking stories” are different and I think I could really use a little Donna Hilbert to get me back home.
Comment by Laura Hodge — June 15, 2010 @ 10:37 pm
This poem, post was wonderful Reminds me of my granny … what a wonderful, wise woman she was. Thank you!
Comment by Snap — June 15, 2010 @ 10:51 pm
Loved this – made me think of my grandma teaching me to iron…sigh I have a few shirts that could use ‘touching up’ maybe I’ll pull out the iron and remember gram…
Comment by kathleenG — June 15, 2010 @ 10:57 pm
This is making my heart smile – home was across the pond and when I was little, my grandmother and mom had laundry days for the ‘big’ pieces in some
laundry ‘kitchen’ in our neighborhood – it also meant ice cold fresh milk and crusty rolls with butter – thanks for bringing back that memory and taking me ‘home’.
Comment by Doris — June 15, 2010 @ 11:21 pm
This sounds like perfect “sunshine in the backyard” kinda poetry! <3 I know just the place, no, placeS I'd like to read this book <3
Comment by diana — June 15, 2010 @ 11:48 pm
Ah, I too enjoy being home, alone. Gotta figure out how to pull that off.
Win this or not I want you to know how much I appreciate you and your words helping me to bring myself back home again, and again.
Comment by Lisa Mae — June 15, 2010 @ 11:53 pm
My mother’s birthday is the 19th, and I’m going “home” to see her. My dog is in the process of going home right now.
Comment by Kim — June 16, 2010 @ 12:05 am
I’m right there with my great-grandma. I was lucky enough to have one of those. Everyone’s gone now, but I have my laundry and it is one of the great loves of my life. The smell, the routine, my husband’s clothes mingling with mine. A dishtowel or a car washing rag here and there. Pieces of life. And it smells sooooooo good!!!!!!
Comment by Heather — June 16, 2010 @ 12:36 am
I can smell the tablecloth now, can’t you? What an ode to memories.
I recently had the privilege of taking an English class at our local college. The instructor and I have been friends for years. In fact, she was the maid-of-honor at my wedding. We wondered how our friendship would weather this new aspect of our relationship: instructor-teacher. I’m pleased to report it was a tremendous experience for me, and our friendship remains intact. I learned many things during the course of the year including some baby steps towards understanding and embracing poetry. I would welcome the opportunity to broaden my horizons once again.
Comment by Jan — June 16, 2010 @ 1:54 am
beautiful. I hope someday I too will have the grace to sing through the heavy work.
I also love the photo of the weathered clothespins and line.
Comment by Heather — June 16, 2010 @ 2:43 am
“Laundry, laundry, bo-baundry,
Banana-bana fo-faundry:
Fee-fi mo-maundry ~~ LAUNDRY!”
Comment by nyima — June 16, 2010 @ 3:00 am
What can be spoken in response to beautiful poetry? Stunning.
Comment by rani — June 16, 2010 @ 5:08 am
“Swing low. Carry me home” … those closing lines are amazing.
(if it’s OK to ship internationally of course).
Please count me in
Comment by Rose — June 16, 2010 @ 6:34 am
Wonderful poem. And I love “GRIEF BECOMES ME” and “LESSON” from “Transforming Matter” on her website.
Thanks for sharing. _/\_
Comment by puerhan — June 16, 2010 @ 8:07 am
Going home is what life is all about, isn’t it? Coming home to our sweet selves, swing low. Here’s the first section of a poem I wrote several years ago, using the same old Negro spiritual:
SWING LOW, SWEET
I.
The first time I held her—husband,
translator, adoption facilitator
all momentarily away, making the meeting
mine: unscripted, unsupervised—
she sat on my lap, lace-capped,
made a big sigh. The warmth
from her undiapered bottom
spread to my legs. I looked over
yonder and what did I see,
coming for to carry me home?
II.
And now I am all mothers
over their children. A band of angels
coming after me. The big mothers
of my childhood: Mrs. Moss,
the rawboned redhead who fed
Comment by Lynda — June 16, 2010 @ 10:50 am
Ooh, yes, I love this! I’m the only person I know who irons linens – my mom says “I don’t know where you got *that* from!”- but I also LOVE the smell of steam rising from clean cotton. I never thought of myself “craving” it, though, and that thought really makes this poem sing to me. Thanks so much for sharing it and I would love the book! Take wonderful care, Stacey
Comment by Stacey — June 16, 2010 @ 12:02 pm
i took the photo because it reminded me of you. and now your blog has reminded me that i have laundry to do. how appropriate!
Comment by Terri Fischer — June 16, 2010 @ 1:21 pm
I’d like to take you to the place that picture was taken. It will make your eyes twinkle too! Magical words….
Comment by Julie Bartel — June 16, 2010 @ 1:40 pm
I usually click on every link Terri puts on her page because what intrigues her sparks curiosity in me. This is incredibly beautiful. I thank you for posting it and writing it and for allowing us to share righ along with you. Now I really miss my grandmother…but I’m smiling and will continue to do so all day. :~)
Comment by Joann Ciske — June 16, 2010 @ 2:17 pm
That brings back such memories of childhood! I can hear the shaking of the water on the cotton clothes and then the hiss and smell of steam from the iron. Lovely.
Comment by Beth — June 16, 2010 @ 2:31 pm
This poem makes me sad for all that I have missed in my own upbringing. With a single working mother and all the conveniences of a modern home, laundry day was perfunctory business, devoid of all emotion except bother, devoid of all sensation except fatigue. I hope that I am able to create more meaning in household work for my children than I ever had.
Comment by Deb — June 16, 2010 @ 2:38 pm
Who know laundry could sound so welcome?
Comment by Kelly H — June 16, 2010 @ 3:01 pm
Wow, this is awesome! Love it! Like Deb in #33, I missed out on much of this as a child, but wish I could have had this. I always at least enjoyed hanging laundry on the line with my aunt when I visited her in the summer.
Comment by Kristin — June 16, 2010 @ 3:35 pm
this is simply gorgeous. i love how it feels to crave the smell of steam with her. Thank you Donna, thank you Karen.
Comment by katie murphy — June 16, 2010 @ 4:32 pm
The essence of my grandmother, my home. I love to find her again and again. Down the street, across the world,in words , images and in person. Love this.
Comment by Angela — June 16, 2010 @ 5:41 pm
long for the steady slow pulse / of Tuesday routine
The poignancy in this poem is almost unbearable. And so beautiful.
Comment by Jena — June 16, 2010 @ 5:49 pm
To me, the poem speaks of simplicity, routine, realistic expectations – all not easily attainable in our world now. We are overscheduled, always connected (thanks to the smartphone), rushed, overspent and living in a world that seems to be physically caving in. Thank you for sharing this – it’s a great reminder that simpler, while not necessarily “better” days, are not so bad…
Comment by Mimi Schector — June 16, 2010 @ 6:02 pm
Its not so much the task at hand, is it? Instead its the mind we bring to the task right in front of us, here, now.
Tonight I shall sing as I prepare supper for my family.
Comment by Edith — June 16, 2010 @ 6:35 pm
lovely. adn i love that photo by terri, too. and i love poetry.
Comment by cath c — June 16, 2010 @ 7:16 pm
amazing when you serendipitously (is that a word?) find a kindred spirit. thanks for giving.
Comment by Lindsay R — June 17, 2010 @ 5:39 am
Now that summer has finally arrived in Minnesota, I am delighted to be able to step outside and pin our clothes to the line. It is a simple, practical, meditative task that makes me feel quiet and relaxed. The clothing flutters in the breeze like Tibetan prayer flags. Each sock, t-shirt and pair of blue jeans carries a meaning shaped by the wearer, an essential mantra spread to the universe by the wind. At the end of the afternoon, it is a pleasure to gather the laundry and fold each starchy-stiff, fragrant piece. I have the sense that the refreshed clothing I tuck away into drawers carries an ineffable response from the universe, as well.
Comment by Lisa Steinmann — June 17, 2010 @ 2:02 pm
This wonderful poem brought a smile to my face and a memory of laundry on the line when I was a child. It also took me to Donna Hilbert’s web site. Thanks so much for sharing it with us.
Comment by Clara — June 17, 2010 @ 9:23 pm
beautiful. i could feel my grandmother’s presence in that poem as well.
Comment by cypress sun (amy) — June 17, 2010 @ 11:57 pm
This is how I like to think it was for my grandma.
Comment by Jeannine — June 18, 2010 @ 3:36 am
a familiar occurrence…
thank you for entering my name.
Comment by yvonne — June 18, 2010 @ 2:12 pm
Gorgeous poem. Thanks so much for sharing. It’s wonderful when we stumble onto such gifts and grace!
And here’s a long-distance hug for your sad anniversary…
Comment by Lana — June 18, 2010 @ 3:17 pm
How lovely – I remember that smell from my grandma ironing and remember curiously watching my mom as she would spray the ironing with a spray bottle to make that hiss. I miss my mom too (she died 5 years ago) but luckily talk to my grandma who is 97 every couple of days.
Comment by Barbara H — June 19, 2010 @ 12:32 pm
Her words do feel like home.
Comment by Mama Zen — June 20, 2010 @ 1:38 pm
Thanks for sharing this poem.
Comment by Georgie — June 20, 2010 @ 10:53 pm
Ahh, yearn to be home, then you have reminded me I already am! Many thanks!!!
Comment by Stephanie W. — June 21, 2010 @ 12:00 am