According to Writer’s Almanac, Lucille Clifton’s family descended from slaves; her father was a steelworker and her mother worked in a laundry. Her mother, though uneducated, was also a poet. She was once offered the chance to publish her poems, but her husband refused to let her. Here is Lucille Clifton and her poem called “fury.”
fury
for mama
remember this.
she is standing by
the furnace.
the coals
glisten like rubies.
her hand is crying.
her hand is clutching
a sheaf of papers.
poems.
she gives them up.
they burn
jewels into jewels.
her eyes are animals.
each hank of her hair
is a serpent’s obedient
wife.
she will never recover.
remember. there is nothing
you will not bear
for this woman’s sake.
———
Lucille Clifton has written a powerful poem. WE ALL, in one way or another–literally or metaphorically–ignore or fail to protect our creative lives. We are all “obedient” wives to something: the fear of what people will think, the compulsion to take care of everyone else before we take care of ourselves. Or perhaps we are “obedient” to an old way of life or an old way of thinking. What we don’t realize is the huge price it costs us.
As a former psychotherapist who mainly worked with women, I saw this same dynamic play out again and again in a thousand different ways.
WE MUST–women and men alike–claim and protect whatever creative talents we have, or we run the risk of not recovering.
Thoughts? Comments? As always, I love hearing from you.
It’s a sad thing to me whenever art–or the potential for art–is lost. Not exactly the same thing, but I was reading today about a concert Duke Ellington gave in Kabul exactly 50 years ago. It was a historic event, and Ellington later said the band never played better. Yet all traces of the event are lost:
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-24165743
Whenever I hear of someone struck down prematurely, or not permitted to follow their genius, or of an art treasure stolen and never seen again, or recordings, films, etc., that become lost, I am saddened.
In 1938, following on the jazz theme, Benny Goodman gave a concert at Carnegie Hall. What’s the big deal? It was the first time any sort of popular music was played in that hallowed hall. It was also the first time African Americans were allowed on stage with whites to perform–tension was predicted but the audience was hipper than the establishment, and loved every note. But the momentous event was nearly not recorded. It was preserved only because the husband of Goodman’s first female vocalist made a recording of it as a first anniversary wedding present. A courtesy copy was also given to Goodman, and years later, in 1950, it dawned on someone to transfer it to this newfangled medium called the LP and release it as a record. But it was ALMOST lost.
In the late 1940s famed pianist (and now virtually a footnote) Ignaz Friedman appeared in Australia on a radio station and reportedly played a blistering Liszt B minor Sonata, one of the hardest pieces in the repertoire. It was recorded–but years later, when a nearby construction project was looking for landfill material for a construction project, the station manager volunteered the contents of a vault that included these discs! Friedman left no other account of the Liszt Sonata and no live recordings, period.
But there’s a bright side to this comment: Mary Pickford’s very first credited film, long thought lost, was recently found in a barn in New Hampshire and has been restored!
https://www.thehistoryblog.com/archives/27174
Hi Susan, The line in the poem, “she will never recover” hit a nerve with me. How sad to have a dream and to never have it realized. It probably happens to most of us at one time or another but especially as we grow older. So many things get in our way. If we at least make the effort to use our creative juices, precious wine may flow.
Mary
How sad…
I agree that we should always nurture who we truly are, and never let anyone kill our inner drive. I grieve for the talent and thoughts that her mother was never able to show us, and for her father’s fear and insecurity. Trélys
Thanks for your thoughtful comment, as always. I find it interesting that even “known” people can have their work lost. Lucille Clifton’s mom would have never been remembered by any of us if Lucille hadn’t written a poem about her mother and included her promise that she would not forget.
I think every second of every day there is an artist or writer who doesn’t have the belief in themselves or the support to keep going. They aren’t almost lost, they never even made it to almost. And in our own weird way–you and me, and anyone who strives to continue living a creative life–I think we honor them by continuing, as Lucille did with her mom. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t bear in order to keep writing her own poetry and get it out into the world.
My mother kept oil paints in a drawer in the kitchen where she cooked meals for her family after working a full-time job, yet didn’t have the time or energy to open that drawer and develop her own talents. (There are just as many dad’s out there who suffered the same fate.) I think that is one of the reasons I am determined to carry on.
There are almost too many to grieve for, Trelys. This is one of millions of stories. But the most important thing, I think, is to continue our own work.
Perhaps as we get older it is our turn to encourage the younger ones, Mary, as well as nurturing our own precious wines.
Thanks for commenting!
Susan