The beautiful thing about your writing is that I think all of us, as your readers, come away with different meanings--as if the piece is a Rorschach of sorts. Poetry in general invites this, as do paintings and other forms of art. But your writing seems to openly invite it, seems to encourage the reader to personalize it and be met with what they need in that alchemical, nourishing process of appreciating the creative materials of the artist.
And in this Rorschach, with its black waters, nestled dependent children, with the insistence of a mother on the remembrance of lighter shades in her photographs, the plums between mother and son...I walked away with such a beautiful and tender portrait of a parent admirably navigating internal darkness--whether grief of a loss or a trauma, perhaps depression and mental illness--all while doing her best to remind her son that black is not the only color. Reminding herself that black is not the only color. She persists in seeking out life--taking him to the beach, enjoying the fruit of a tree, teaching him to appreciate the various colors in her photographs--and the boy is so in tune with the undercurrents of his mother, so enamored with her (the way he marvels at her in the sunlight), and so the relationship becomes reciprocal, as so many parents will recognize. The mother giving light to the child despite her darkness, the child giving life with the small trusting movements of his body against hers before the sun comes up.
It's such a beautiful piece. And as a parent that has often struggled to fight against my own black waters as I walk my children along sunny shorelines, this truly felt like a gift for me to read.
This moved me. Stopped me. This response is more than I could’ve expected when I wrote it; sometimes writing seems like a mad pursuit, but then comments like this make it worth it :-)
You’ve articulated something I wasn’t even fully conscious of putting there… the way the child becomes a participant in the mother’s survival, and how that love moves in both directions even when the child doesn’t know it. Thank you for sharing something so personal in return!
Brandon - you have articulated something I have felt when reading Deer Girl’s writing but had no adequate words for. We each take something that we need from something she needed to say. Thank you both.
Holly, this is absolutely stunning! Oh my goodness; the black sea, the boy, the plums, the tobacco hair, the bus. Your writing is so gently, so quietly profound, tapping into something unseen and deep within my core. Thank you for sharing this today.
Thank you Afrodite, it came from someone on here mentioning the Black Sea and me immediately being unable to picture the water in any colour but black!
Was sweet, Holly. Reminds me of taking the train up from Philly to NYC as a child for modeling guild shoots. My mom and a few of us in tow with our lunch bags of fruit would go often and were happy to be out of school and make some much needed money.
We always stopped to say a prayer at the statue of the angel carrying the soldier to Heaven.
Thank you for this piece. It awakened something I have not felt in a long time - that strange mixture of warmth and sorrow that so often accompanies childhood memories. Reading it, I could almost feel the sea again: not as a place, but as a state of mind, preserved somewhere deep inside us.
Oh, that’s lovely to hear. I was worried writing about it because I had never seen it – that maybe I wouldn’t be able to capture what I saw in photographs or video. So it’s very nice to hear that you could see the sea again :-)
This captures the quiet, aching weight of grief so beautifully, where a specific shade of the sea becomes the permanent language of a mother's love and the memories she left behind in the water ✨
"Black water keeps the moonpath and the fishermen’s headlamps and his pale arms slicing in ahead of her each morning, before she had even set down their things – and once, a sheet of fish skin, and once, something she turned him away from, and now nothing, only black water and the sound of it." --beautiful
Photo: not the Black Sea, but the sea near where I live on a stormy day.
You are a skilled photographer and a writer. I love the poetry of a child learning water can be black.
Thank you very much Li! 🖤
The beautiful thing about your writing is that I think all of us, as your readers, come away with different meanings--as if the piece is a Rorschach of sorts. Poetry in general invites this, as do paintings and other forms of art. But your writing seems to openly invite it, seems to encourage the reader to personalize it and be met with what they need in that alchemical, nourishing process of appreciating the creative materials of the artist.
And in this Rorschach, with its black waters, nestled dependent children, with the insistence of a mother on the remembrance of lighter shades in her photographs, the plums between mother and son...I walked away with such a beautiful and tender portrait of a parent admirably navigating internal darkness--whether grief of a loss or a trauma, perhaps depression and mental illness--all while doing her best to remind her son that black is not the only color. Reminding herself that black is not the only color. She persists in seeking out life--taking him to the beach, enjoying the fruit of a tree, teaching him to appreciate the various colors in her photographs--and the boy is so in tune with the undercurrents of his mother, so enamored with her (the way he marvels at her in the sunlight), and so the relationship becomes reciprocal, as so many parents will recognize. The mother giving light to the child despite her darkness, the child giving life with the small trusting movements of his body against hers before the sun comes up.
It's such a beautiful piece. And as a parent that has often struggled to fight against my own black waters as I walk my children along sunny shorelines, this truly felt like a gift for me to read.
This moved me. Stopped me. This response is more than I could’ve expected when I wrote it; sometimes writing seems like a mad pursuit, but then comments like this make it worth it :-)
You’ve articulated something I wasn’t even fully conscious of putting there… the way the child becomes a participant in the mother’s survival, and how that love moves in both directions even when the child doesn’t know it. Thank you for sharing something so personal in return!
Brandon - you have articulated something I have felt when reading Deer Girl’s writing but had no adequate words for. We each take something that we need from something she needed to say. Thank you both.
That’s… really beautiful. Thank you.
Holly, this is absolutely stunning! Oh my goodness; the black sea, the boy, the plums, the tobacco hair, the bus. Your writing is so gently, so quietly profound, tapping into something unseen and deep within my core. Thank you for sharing this today.
Thank you for reading this and commenting today (I was thinking: is this too quiet?)
I can't really begin to express how this landed. Maybe quiet invites the reader to lean forward, to get just a little closer?
I like the sound of that :-)
Black and all its colors. Tobacco hair/white sky. Gorgeous.
Thank you, e!🖤
as a slavic person, i appreciate this even more <3 beautiful work.
Ahh, thank you Lia! <3
“He is six years old when he understands that water can be black.” This is a gorgeous line.
Thank you Afrodite, it came from someone on here mentioning the Black Sea and me immediately being unable to picture the water in any colour but black!
That is part of what I love about this site. Not only are folks super supportive, but there is also inspiration everywhere.
Beautiful. I've read it now a few times and discover something new each time
Thank you, Damien 🖤
'The plums are between them" ...Thank you for sharing this 🌻🌻🌻☀️
Thank you for reading! :-)
Childhood perception becomes fixed inside us.
It does! It’s sometimes so funny going back to places that you remember as a child – the difference.
Was sweet, Holly. Reminds me of taking the train up from Philly to NYC as a child for modeling guild shoots. My mom and a few of us in tow with our lunch bags of fruit would go often and were happy to be out of school and make some much needed money.
We always stopped to say a prayer at the statue of the angel carrying the soldier to Heaven.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pennsylvania_Railroad_World_War_II_Memorial
Oh lovely, what a sweet memory!
Achingly beautiful.
Thank you very much Liz 🤍
I grew up by the Black Sea.
Thank you for this piece. It awakened something I have not felt in a long time - that strange mixture of warmth and sorrow that so often accompanies childhood memories. Reading it, I could almost feel the sea again: not as a place, but as a state of mind, preserved somewhere deep inside us.
Oh, that’s lovely to hear. I was worried writing about it because I had never seen it – that maybe I wouldn’t be able to capture what I saw in photographs or video. So it’s very nice to hear that you could see the sea again :-)
Everything in your words was absolutely right and very visible, so thank you for that
This captures the quiet, aching weight of grief so beautifully, where a specific shade of the sea becomes the permanent language of a mother's love and the memories she left behind in the water ✨
Thank you Brandi – permanent language of a mother’s love is a really lovely way of putting it 🖤
"Black water keeps the moonpath and the fishermen’s headlamps and his pale arms slicing in ahead of her each morning, before she had even set down their things – and once, a sheet of fish skin, and once, something she turned him away from, and now nothing, only black water and the sound of it." --beautiful
Thank you very much, M.P :-)
I love this!
Made me think Hughes’s ‘Crow’
More specifically ‘Two Legends’ 🙂
I was looking for my copy of this the other day but couldn’t find it! Will read; thank you 🐦⬛
My friend purchased this copy for me, and I love it. I love black.
You’re welcome 🙂
I found a copy on eBay for two quid so I treated myself to a new one :-)
I remembered I gave away the last one – but it’s probably in Germany somewhere now!
Nice!
Did you used to live in Germany? 🙂
No – I didn’t, but I have a couple of friends there and I am often exchanging books with them!
Ahh, cool 🙂
I was riding the bus. Great imagery.
Thank you, Fred!