Poetry

So today we brought in poems to present to the class. I brought in one of my favorite poems, "My Son My Executioner" by Donald Hall, but now im kind of wishing I chose another one. I'm pretty sure I made my teacher tear up and probably made myself look like a crazy mother since the poem has a kind of morbid feel to it. But I really dont find it morbid, in a bad way. Its very moving. Its not about death per se, but about parents realizing that they have a legacy to leave behind when they do pass. The last stanza is the part that really expresses that because the speaker is talking about how they are young and when you are young you feel like you will live forever, but of course you wont. And by looking at their son they are realizing that life will continue on, through him. But maybe not everyone got that? I got the feeling afterwards that everyone thought a was a bit loopy. "/
I had two poems and couldn't decide which to go with and at the last minute chose that one. I should have just gone with "Self in 1958" by Anne Sexton. I love the 1950s housewife persona the poet uses.

Self in 1958- Anne Sexton

What is reality?

I am a plaster doll; I pose

with eyes that cut open without landfall or nightfall

upon some shellacked and grinning person,

eyes that open, blue, steel, and close.

Am I approximately an I. Magnin transplant?

I have hair, black angel,

black angel-stuffing to comb,

nylon legs, luminous arms

and some advertised clothes.

I live in a doll’s house

with four chairs,

a counterfeit table, a flat roof

and a big front door.

Many have come to such a small crossroad.

There is an iron bed,

(Life enlarges, life takes aim)

a cardboard floor,

windows that flash open on someone’s city,

and little more.

Someone plays with me,

plants me in the all-electric kitchen,

Is this what Mrs. Rombauer said?

Someone pretends with me –

I am walled in solid by their noise –

or puts me upon their straight bed.

They think I am me!

Their warmth? Their warmth is not a friend!

They pry my mouth for their cups of gin

and their stale bread.

What is reality

to this synthetic doll

who should smile, who should shift gears,

should spring the doors open in a wholesome disorder,

and have no evidence of ruin or fears?

But I would cry,

rooted into the wall that

was once my mother,

if I could remember how

and if I had the tears.