Poems by Jonna

I’m very happy to share that my manuscript Mother Tongue was selected as a finalist in the 2027 spring chapbook contest by Quillkeeper Press.

This collection means a lot to me, so it was especially moving to receive this response from the judges:

We loved the way Mother Tongue explores the stories, silences, and memories passed from one generation to the next. Through language, family heirlooms, familiar songs, and everyday gestures, these poems reveal how deeply our histories shape us, even when words fail. We were expecially moved by how you hold space for grief while illuminating the quiet, enduring ways love and memory live on in those who come after.

To celebrate, I wanted to share two poems from the collection, “Mother Tongue” and “The Sewing Box”.

Mother Tongue

My mother worried
that my grandmother was lonely
in the modular home she moved to
to be closer to us
after my grandfather died.

Every morning
she would pin her grey hair up
in neat curls on top of her head.
Take her black handbag and grey overcoat
but with nowhere to go.

We took her to a meeting
at the senior centre
so she might meet someone there.
She ironed her blouse twice before leaving.

They were singing psalms
as my mother led her in.
Her pale cheeks flushed red.

At the intermission
with watered down coffee 
and too-dry biscuits
under fluorescent lights 
a woman walked up
and reached out her hand.

“Your accent is lovely.
Where are you from?”

“Stockholm” she said.
The woman tilted her head.
“No, I mean originally.”

My grandmother 
stirred her coffee twice,
didn’t speak.

On the drive home
my gran cursed at her daughter
for even getting the idea
of bringing her there.

Pointing fingers 
with her tiny, 
wrinkled hand.
Reaching up, 
spit pooling 
at the corners of her mouth.

I’d never seen her so angry in my life.

The Sewing Box

My grandmother kept her sewing things
in a box my grandfather made for her.

He polished the wood until it shone,
then painted roses and vines across the lid.

Her initials in looping letters.

It looked like a caress.

My mother kept it
after my grandmother died.

It still stands on the floor
in my childhood room.

The roses haven’t faded.

---

I wanted to write a collection about my grandmother, my mother, and me. About what we carry from one generation to the next. The impact of moving from Finland to Sweden, where people spoke the same language, but somehow still didn’t.

Grief, but also love and endurance.

These poems have been with me for a long time, so having them recognised in this way means a lot to me.

I’m very happy to share these two poems with you.

Until next time,

Jonna