The Works of Jayne Pupek

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Richmond, VA, United States
Jayne Pupek is the author of the novel "Tomato Girl" (Algonquin Books, 2008) and a book of poems titled "Forms of Intercession" (Mayapple Press, 2008). Her writing has appeared in numerous literary journals. In addition to her own writing, Jayne freelances as a ghostwriter, editor and mentor. A Virginia native, Jayne has spent most of her professional life working in the field of mental health.

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Sunday, May 11, 2008

Happy Mother's Day

I hope everyone enjoys a wonderful Mother's Day! I started celebrations early and am admiring my beautiful white roses (My youngest son, the artist in the family, took the photo above of my flowers in front of a painting we have hanging in the living room). I also received new DVDs and books. There were poetry books in the mix--of course-- but also books about screenwriting. I've dabbled with pieces of a script, trying to learn the format, but have never completed a screenplay. I would like to give it a try...when I find time. My "To DO" list gets longer every day.

My agent has sent me notes over recent days regarding my novel, "Tomato Girl," which is forthcoming from Algonquin Books in August. It is still very early, but some of the initial buzz has been encouraging. I'm crossing my fingers...and toes...and well, I don't think there is much else I can cross. The book is available for pre-order at Amazon for those of you who'd like to get the early bird discount.

Today we're having Cajun catfish, mashed potatoes, and creamed spinach with a beautiful heart-shaped cake hubby picked up for dessert. After this meal, I'm not eating again for a week! Okay, maybe two days. Lol! We celebrated Cinco de Mayo with Mexican food and Coronas on May 5th, then enjoyed a huge meal from Chilli's to celebrate our eldest son's birthday on the 8th, and today...a Mother's Day Feast.

And now, one of my favorite poems about motherhood:

Morning Song

by Sylvia Plath

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

From Ariel, published by Harper & Row, 1966