Day 6 - My Mother

My Mother
Frieda Hughes

They are killing her again,
She said she did it
One Year in every ten,
But they do it annually, or weekly,
Some do it daily,
Carrying her death around in their heads,
And practicing it. She saves them
The trouble of their own;
They can die through her
Without ever making
The decision. My buried mother
Is dug up for repeat performances

Now they want to make a film
For anyone lacking the ability
To imagine the body, head in oven,
Orphaning children. Then
It can be rewound
So they can watch her die
Right from the beginning again.

The peanut eaters, entertained
At my mother’s death, will go home,
Each carrying their memory of her,
Lifeless — a souvenir.
Maybe they’ll buy the video
Watching someone on TV
Means all they have to do
Is press ‘pause’
If they want to boil a kettle,
While my mother holds her breath on screen
To finish dying after tea.

The filmmakers have collected
The body parts.
They want me to see.
But they require dressings to cover the joints
And disguise the prosthetics
In their remake of my mother.
They want to use her poetry
As stitching and sutures
To give it credibility.
They think I should love it-
Having her back again, they think
I should give them my mother’s words
to fill the mouth of their monster,
Their Sylvia Suicide Doll.
Who will walk and talk
And die at will,
And die, and die
And forever be dying.

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With parents like Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath, it was inevitable that Frieda would give poetry a try, and she seems to have inherited some of their skill. This poem is about Frieda's reaction to 'Sylvia', the 2003 film about Plath's death. The BBC asked her to become involved in the production, but she refused point-blanc, writing this poem as a reaction. 

Your prompt today is to write a poem in response to a current issue or affair. It could be the local votes, the Queen's Jubilee, even the football. It can be anything.