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Material by Ros Barber

Original Poetry

Translation

Material by Ros Barber

My mother was a

My mother was a hanky queen

queen of handkerchiefs

when hanky meant a thing of cloth,

when a handkerchief was made of cloth,

not paper tissues bought in packs

from late-night garages and shops,

but things for waving out of trains

and mopping the corners of your grief:

and wiping away tears:

when hankies were material

when handkerchiefs were made of fabric

she’d have one, always, up her sleeve.

she always had one up her sleeve.

Tucked in the wrists of every cardi,

Tucked in the wrists of every cardigan,

a mum’s embarrassment of lace

a mother's awkward lace

embroidered with a V for Viv,

spittled and scrubbed against my face.

spit-cleaned and scrubbed against my face.

And sometimes more than one fell out

And sometimes more than one would fall out

as if she had a farm up there

where dried-up hankies fell in love

where old handkerchiefs fell in love

and mated, raising little squares.

and produced little squares.

She bought her own; I never did.

Hankies were presents from distant aunts

Handkerchiefs were gifts from distant aunts

in boxed sets, with transparent covers

in boxed sets, with clear covers

and script initials spelling ponce,

and script initials spelling out 'fancy',

the naffest Christmas gift you’d get –

the tackiest Christmas gift you’d get –

my brothers too, more often than not,

got male ones: serious, and grey,

and larger, like they had more snot.

and larger, like they had more mucus.

It was hankie that closed department stores,

It was handkerchiefs that closed department stores,

with headscarves, girdles, knitting wool

and trouser presses; homely props

and trouser presses; homely items

you’d never find today in malls.

Hankies, which demanded irons,

Handkerchiefs, which needed ironing,

and boiling to be purified

and boiling to be cleaned

shuttered the doors of family stores

closed the doors of family stores

when those who used to buy them died.

And somehow, with the hanky’s loss,

And somehow, with the loss of handkerchiefs,

greengrocer George with his dodgy foot

greengrocer George with his bad foot

delivering veg from a Comma van

delivering vegetables from a Comma van

is history, and the friendly butcher

who’d slip and extra sausage in,

who’d slip an extra sausage in,

the fishmonger whose marble slab

the fishmonger whose marble counter

of haddock smoked the colour of yolks

of haddock smoked the color of yolks

and parcelled rows of local crab

and packaged rows of local crab

lay opposite the dancing school

where Mrs White, with painted talons,

where Mrs. White, with painted nails,

taught us When You’re Smiling from a stumbling, out of tune piano:

taught us 'When You’re Smiling' from a stumbling, out of tune piano:

step-together, step-together,

step-together, point! The Annual Talent Show

when every mother, fencing tears,

when every mother, holding back tears,

would whip a hanky from their sleeve

would pull a handkerchief from their sleeve

and smudge the rouge from little dears.

and wipe the makeup from little ones.

Nostalgia only makes me old.

Nostalgia only makes me feel old.

The innocence I want my brood

The innocence I want my children

to cling on to like ten-bob notes

to hold onto like ten-bob notes

was killed in TV’s lassitude.

was killed by TV’s laziness.

And it was me that turned it onand eat bought biscuits I would bake

And it was me that turned it on and ate store-bought biscuits I would bake

if I’d commit to being home.

There’s never a hanky up my sleeve.

There’s never a handkerchief up my sleeve.

I raised neglected-looking kids,

the kind whose noses strangers clean.

What awkwardness in me forbids

What awkwardness in me stops

me to keep tissues in my bag when handy packs are 50p?

me from keeping tissues in my bag when handy packs are 50p?

I miss material handkerchiefs,

I miss fabric handkerchiefs,

their soft and hidden history.

But it isn’t mine. I’ll let it go.

My mother too, eventually,

who died not leaving handkerchiefs

but tissues and uncertainty:

and she would say, should I complain

of the scratchy and disposable,

that this is your material

to do with, daughter, what you will.

Explanation

Ros Barber's poem 'Material' explores the theme of nostalgia and the generational shift from a time of tangible, intimate connections to a modern, disposable culture. The poem reflects on the poet's mother, who cherished cloth handkerchiefs, a symbol of a bygone era of personal and domestic care. These handkerchiefs, embroidered and lovingly maintained, contrast sharply with today's paper tissues, representing a loss of tradition and personal touch. The poem uses vivid imagery to evoke the past, such as the mother's handkerchiefs tucked in her sleeve, the bustling family stores, and the community figures like the greengrocer and butcher. The poet laments the loss of these connections and the innocence of childhood, which has been replaced by the convenience and detachment of modern life. The poem also touches on the poet's own feelings of inadequacy as a parent, unable to replicate the warmth and care of her mother's generation. The final lines reflect a resignation to this change, acknowledging that the past cannot be reclaimed, and the poet must create her own 'material' from the present.

Word Dictionary15

Word	In English	Plain (English)	Pron.
hanky	handkerchief	a small piece of cloth used for wiping the face or hands	hank-ee
cardi	cardigan	a type of knitted sweater with buttons	kar-dee
ponce	fancy	something overly fancy or pretentious	pons
naffest	tackiest	the most unfashionable or lacking in style	naf-est
lassitude	laziness	a state of physical or mental weariness	las-i-tood
brood	children	a group of young offspring	brood
talons	nails	sharp, pointed nails	tal-ons
smudge	smear	to make a dirty mark or streak	smuhj
brood	children	a group of young offspring	brood
yolks	egg centers	the yellow part of an egg	yolks
dodgy	unreliable	potentially unsafe or unreliable	dod-jee
fencing	holding back	to prevent or restrain	fen-sing
ten-bob notes	old currency	a former British currency note worth ten shillings	ten-bob nohts
brood	children	a group of young offspring	brood
material	substance	the substance or fabric from which something is made	muh-teer-ee-uhl

Poet & Context

PoetRos Barber

EraContemporary

Rosalind Barber, born in 1964, is an English novelist, poet, and academic. She is known for her poetry collection 'Material' and the novel 'The Marlowe Papers'.

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WhenPublished in 2008

WhyThe poem 'Material' by Ros Barber reflects on generational loss, nostalgia, and the changing nature of domestic life. It contrasts the past's tangible, intimate connections with the present's disposable culture.

FormFree verse

Themes & More

Themes

NostalgiaGenerational changeLossDomestic life

Literary devices

Imagery: Vivid descriptions of handkerchiefs and community life evoke a sense of nostalgia.Metaphor: Handkerchiefs symbolize the past and personal connections.Personification: Handkerchiefs 'fell in love and mated', giving them human-like qualities.Contrast: The poem contrasts the past's tangible connections with the present's disposability.