I'm delighted to feature today a poem by Stephen Claughton, taken from his pamphlet titled The 3-D Clock (Dempsey & Windle, 2020).The collection in question is thematic in nature, taking a mother's dementia as its point of departure, tackling some of life's big issues.
As a reader, I was especially drawn to this poem by the way Claughton's use of emotional restraint and understatement serves to heighten its resonance. Much of its power can be found in what remains unsaid by the two protagonists, left to be inferred by the reader. In fact, the supposed closure of the poem's seemingly circular ending opens out far beyond the limits of its lines. I do hope you enjoy it...!
Anomia
Even the words for ordinary,
everyday things are beginning to fail you now
like old labels that come unstuck
and get muddled beyond recall.
I do my best to help you,
as together we puzzle out
what exactly it is you mean.
It isn’t an easy task –
I’m not a mind-reader, Mum,
and you don’t give me much to go on.
Your periphrases, though accurate enough,
are somehow beside the point.
“The thing that holds water,” you say,
I lamely render as “jug”,
only to find it was “radiator” you meant.
There’s even a name for it,
a word for the loss of words,
though it isn’t one I use.
I work around it instead,
not wanting to worry you.
“It’s just old age,” I say,
“or because you’re feeling tired.”
You seem satisfied with that,
though you’ve seen it happen before –
to your sister and some of your friends.
We don’t need words for it,
this thing that’s bothering you;
we both know what it means.
Stephen Claughton
(first published in The Poetry Shed)
