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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460798" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>0357 On not thinking about people you thought you loved</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I’d been reading some poems with<br>– for the first time in my life that I remember –<br>‘a lump in my throat’; and a pricking in my eyes, <br>and a sense of the awesome power of that poet<br>and of poetry itself; and self-criticism<br>mixed up with envy, wishing I had <br>that sort of poetic power myself; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and it seemed to call for some sort of <br>formal acknowledgement of this, <br>some ritual of gratitude – not necessarily<br>the darkened room, the candle swaying gently, <br>the kneeling – but something inner that<br>was beyond selfishness, some worthy<br>sacrifice, surrender.<br>Perhaps, I thought, the thought<br>of that would have to suffice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then quite out of the blue – or so it seemed, but maybe not –<br>came this painful thought: <br>that never for a single moment – a single moment! –<br>in my life, had I ever given thought<br>to what my mother was like, living her life<br>before I was born</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and I was overcome, stunned, appalled, <br>at the hugeness of my selfishness, <br>the smallness of my self-centred world<br>that I, who pride myself on my imagination, <br>lacked the imagination even to think of those I love and loved<br>as existing without me in the picture…</div><div style="margin:10px 0">of course, there are photographs –<br>studio portraits, snaps, <br>solemn-faced groups with hockey sticks; <br>the pride of motherhood; <br>and yet I’d looked at all those without<br>really thinking of her being her; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">but, where to start? The young girl<br>as her life slowly formed around her? <br>the teenage dreams; the hopes of marriage; <br>of giving a loving husband<br>the greatest living present she could give, and then<br>the two miscarriages before I arrived<br>to strut about my centre-stage? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It didn’t work.<br>and so I’m left with the stark, bare fact<br>to ponder at my leisure: <br>I never for a moment thought<br>of my mother existing as herself<br>without my being there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I thought I loved her, totally. So much<br>for love’s imagination.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Shepherd">Michael Shepherd</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460798" data-title="0357 On not thinking about people you thought you loved de Michael Shepherd" data-description="I’d been reading some poems with
– for the first time in my life that I remember –
‘a lump in my throat’; and a pricking in my eyes, 
and a sense of the awesome power of that poet
and of poetry itself; and self-criticism
mixed up with en..."></div>
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