Grip Stick

This is the title of a poem of mine which the New Statesman published last week, and put up on the website this evening. It's the first poem I've published about my mum, who died over two years ago. It occurs to me now that it's a bit strange to not only use her death (and my reaction to it) as the vehicle for a poem, but to actually be paid for this. I know there are plenty of arguments against feeling strange, and that many poets have written about dead parents, children, etc. (one of the most common themes in literature). I recall the French poet Philippe Jaccottet's passionate revulsion at the thought of writing anything personal about one's loved ones. Then I think of Julian Barnes' Levels of Life and Christopher Reid's beautiful and heartbreaking long poem to his dead wife, The Scattering.

But it still feels strange.

Seems appropriate to photograph the implement in question hanging on the door to our backyard. When the weather was warm Mum used sit in her deckchair at the top of the steps, using her umbrella as a sunshade.