She still has a strong English accent
When she speaks French, but now
To her despair, she can’t even speak
English without making mistakes.
She hasn’t lost her French,
But she has lost her teeth,
And I can’t help but smile
When she tells me with a lisp,
‘You can’t even notice it, can you?’
Yes, mother, I can notice it,
You have grown old
And I can’t deny it.
There’s nothing less original
Than a poem about one’s mother,
All poets love their mothers
Otherwise they wouldn’t write poetry.
And yet I waited until you were
Almost eighty to write a poem about you,
Perhaps because you don’t like poetry
And even told me I should write in French.
Or perhaps because you’ve
Always been so close to perfection,
As you used to infer, when saying
‘Sorry, I’m not perfect’.
But perfection is boring,
And no one wants to read
A poem about a good mother
Who is loved by her son
And by all the people who meet her.
I am so unlucky:
How will I ever become a great poet
With such a perfect mother,
And such a perfect childhood?
Although you claim you do not like humour
And do not understand irony,
I’m sure you can understand this poem.