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on her blindess adam thorpe

Original Poetry

Translation

on her blindess adam thorpe

My mother couldn't stand being blind,

My mother could not bear being blind,

really. It's something you shouldn't say.

to be honest. One shouldn’t say it.

You should hide the fact that terrible

One should hide the fact that catastrophic

disabilities are awful; you usually hear

handicaps are hell; one tends to hear,

from those who endure it

publicly from those who bear it

like a Roman, or somehow find happiness

like a Roman, or somehow find joy

in the struggle. She once turned to me,

in the fight. She turned to me, once,

in a Paris restaurant, still unable to find

in a Paris restaurant, still not finding

the food on her plate with her fork,

the food on the plate with her fork,

or not so that it stayed on (try it

in complete darkness) and whispered,

in a pitch-black room) and whispered,

"It's a living hell, really Adam.

“It’s living hell, to be honest Adam.

If I lost hope of a cure, I'd end

If I gave up hope of a cure, I’d bump

my life." I don't remember what I said,

myself off.” I don’t recall what I replied,

but it must have been the usual comfort,

but it must have been the usual sop,

inadequate: the trapped son.

inadequate: the locked-in son.

She maintained her dignity, though, even when

She kept her dignity, though, even when

bumping into walls like a bumper car; her sense

bumping into walls like a dodgem; her sense

of direction didn't get better, when focused

My mother could not bear being blind,

inward. "No built-in compass," as my father

to be honest. One shouldn’t say it.

joked. Instead, she pretended to

One should hide the fact that catastrophic

ignore the emptiness, or laughed it off.

handicaps are hell; one tends to hear,

Or saw things she couldn't see

publicly from those who bear it

and smiled, like when the kids would give

like a Roman, or somehow find joy

the latest drawing, or show her their new toy

in the fight. She turned to me, once,

– so we'd forget, at times, that the long,

in a Paris restaurant, still not finding

slow decline had ended in a vision

the food on the plate with her fork,

as blank as stone. For example, she kept

or not so that it stayed on (try it

driving the old Lanchester

in a pitch-black room) and whispered,

long after it was safe

“It’s living hell, to be honest Adam.

down the Berkshire lanes. She'd go to exhibitions,

If I gave up hope of a cure, I’d bump

admire films, immerse in television

myself off.” I don’t recall what I replied,

while looking the wrong way.

but it must have been the usual sop,

Her last week alive (two weeks ago)

inadequate: the locked-in son.

had beautiful weather, of course,

She kept her dignity, though, even when

the autumn trees around the hospital

bumping into walls like a dodgem; her sense

blazing with color, the ground rich

of direction did not improve, when cast

with fallen leaves. I told her this, forgetting,

inward. “No built-in compass,” as my father

as she sat too weak to move, staring

joked. Instead, she pretended to

at nothing. "Oh yes, I know," she said,

ignore the void, or laughed it off.

"it's lovely out there." Dying hasn't made her

Or saw things she couldn’t see

any more blind, but now she can't

and smiled, as when the kids would offer

pretend. Her eyelids were closed

the latest drawing, or show her their new toy

in the coffin; it was up to us to believe

– so we’d forget, at times, that the long,

she was watching, somewhere, in the end.

slow slide had finished in a vision

as blank as stone. For instance, she’d continued

to drive the old Lanchester

long after it was safe

down the Berkshire lanes. She’d visit exhibitions,

admire films, sink into television

while looking the wrong way.

Her last week alive (a fortnight back)

was golden weather, of course,

the autumn trees around the hospital

ablaze with colour, the ground royal

with leaf-fall. I told her this, forgetting,

as she sat too weak to move, staring

at nothing. “Oh yes, I know,” she said,

“it’s lovely out there.” Dying has made her

no more sightless, but now she can’t

pretend. Her eyelids were closed

in the coffin; it was up to us to believe

she was watching, somewhere, in the end

Explanation

Adam Thorpe's poem 'On Her Blindness' is a poignant reflection on his mother's struggle with blindness and her eventual death. The poem is deeply personal and autobiographical, capturing the emotional turmoil and denial associated with her condition. Thorpe's mother is portrayed as a dignified woman who, despite her blindness, tries to maintain a semblance of normalcy and humor. The poem reveals the harsh reality of living with a disability, contrasting public perceptions of bravery with the private agony experienced by those affected. The narrative is set against the backdrop of everyday life, with vivid imagery of autumn and familial interactions. The poem's tone is both tender and honest, acknowledging the pain and helplessness felt by both the mother and son. The use of free verse allows Thorpe to convey the raw emotions and fragmented experiences of his mother's life, culminating in a reflection on her death and the enduring hope that she is watching over them from somewhere beyond.

Word Dictionary15

Word	In English	Plain (English)	Pron.
bear	endure	to tolerate or withstand	bair
catastrophic	disastrous	extremely harmful or damaging	cat-uh-strof-ik
handicaps	disabilities	physical or mental conditions that limit activities	han-di-caps
Roman	stoic	showing endurance and strength like ancient Romans	roh-man
dodgem	bumper car	a small electric car used in amusement parks	doj-em
compass	direction finder	an instrument for determining direction	kum-pas
void	emptiness	a completely empty space	void
Lanchester	car	a type of car	lan-chest-er
Berkshire	place in England	a county in South East England	bark-sheer
fortnight	two weeks	a period of two weeks	fort-night
ablaze	on fire	filled with bright color or light	uh-blayz
royal	majestic	grand or splendid	roy-al
sop	consolation	a small gesture to comfort	sop
pretend	act	to make believe or simulate	pri-tend
vision	sight	the ability to see	vizh-un

Poet & Context

PoetAdam Thorpe

EraContemporary

Adam Thorpe is a British poet and novelist born on December 5, 1956. He is known for his works that include poetry, novels, short stories, and translations. Thorpe frequently contributes reviews and articles to various newspapers and literary journals.

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WhenPublished in the 21st century

WhyThe poem is an autobiographical reflection on the poet's mother's experience with blindness and her eventual death. It explores themes of disability, denial, and the emotional struggles faced by both the individual and their family.

FormFree verse

Themes & More

Themes

disabilitydenialfamilydeathdignity

Literary devices

imagery: vivid descriptions of autumn and blindnessmetaphor: comparing blindness to 'living hell'alliteration: 'slow slide', 'golden weather'irony: pretending to see despite blindnessrepetition: 'to be honest' emphasizes truthfulness