“Good Mother”: Eight Questions for Rachel Eliza Griffiths
Rachel Eliza Griffiths was born and raised in Washington, D.C., and is an award-winning poet, photographer, and visual artist. She attended Sarah Lawrence College and has taught at Princeton University and Sarah Lawrence. Her work includes several poetry collections, such as Seeing the Body, Lighting the Shadow, and Mule & Pear, as well as her poems “Good Mother” and “Elegy” from The Best American Poetry series, and her recent collection, Dear America. Her work explores themes of memory, identity, grief, and womanhood, often through vivid imagery and emotional depth. Griffiths’s photography has been featured in many literary journals, and her portraits of poets have become well known in the writing world. She has received numerous honors for her brilliant work in the literary industry.
When I first read Rachel Eliza Griffiths’s poem “Good Mother” in The Best American Poetry 2020, I was struck by how real it felt. The poem captures grief, kindness, and the power of connection in a single moment inside a Rite Aid. It made me think about how even ordinary places can hold deep emotion. Her poetry feels deeply personal and emotional without being complicated, and I wanted to understand how the loss of her mother changed the way she writes and sees the world. That curiosity led me to choose Griffiths as the poet I wanted to interview.
I learned that you are also a photographer. Do you ever think of poetry as a kind of photography or photography as a kind of poetry? How do the two art forms connect and influence each other in your works?
I’d describe my poetry, prose, and photography as “lyrical” in the tradition of poetry that is named as “lyric.” The musicality and rhythm in my photographs can sometimes share the energy of my poetry. When I’m creating photographs, I often look as if I’m dancing. The presence of the natural world across all genres is very urgent for me. Additionally, I’m always examining the story of my body as a form itself. Sometimes poems can seem to be “photographic” in terms of engaging how we construct memory itself but I feel that poetry demands a relationship to one’s inner life that is not quite identical to what most photographs share with us. Poems and photographs are charged with different versions of “seeing.” As always, there are exceptions that break down this binary of either/or. Sometimes poetry and photography have no boundaries and blur into each other in a way that resists easy narratives.
The title “Good Mother” doesn’t refer to a specific person in the poem. When you wrote it, did you have a particular maternal figure in mind? Was it the stranger in the Rite Aid, your own mother, or the overarching theme of motherly love throughout the poem?
The title of my poem speaks to a larger theme of maternal intuition. For me, over the course of months, as I wrote the poem, it was necessary to visit as many memories as I could that revealed different dimensions of “motherhood” or “mothering.” Some of the most powerful memories of “mothering” I have even include memories of animals or events in nature. I also wanted to think about the phrase––Good Mother––and how easily it can be used without really thinking. I hear people describe someone as a “good mother”, and I wonder about the specific definition as it applies to an individual. It fascinates me that this phrase is so general and at the same time it is deeply personal. No mothers are identical and what any one of us defines as “good” is relative and complicated.
Why did you choose to set “Good Mother” in a Rite Aid? What compelled you to place such a meaningful, emotional moment in such an ordinary setting?
It’s set in a Rite Aid because I was literally in a Rite Aid in my neighborhood in Brooklyn. The poem is a snapshot from a real event that happened to me, which was that I had a very bad spell of grief when I noticed a display of Mother’s Day cards and realized (again) that I’d never be able to buy one for my mother because she was dead. The kindness of a stranger that day helped me so much.
The end of “Good Mother” seems to shift from grief to acceptance and appreciation. What guided your decision to end the poem with an emotional lift rather than remaining in the heaviness of pain and loss?
I’m not sure what guided me. I don’t think it was conscious. I think there is something personally about me that moves towards awe or wonder even during traumatic or overwhelming moments. It’s not exactly resilience either. But I get curious about my experience. I’m comforted by the fact that I’ll never be the only one to suffer pain, grief, and loss. This means I’m not alone but very human and that maybe I can help someone else who is hurting. So I wanted to offer gratitude in “Good Mother” to those who suffer pain as well as to those who can save someone else by acts of compassion. It is a great power to refuse to look away from others’ lives and wounds. My vulnerability is something I offer wherever I am.
In your view, what are the advantages and disadvantages of writing poetry in America today, and how do you see the art form evolving in the years to come?
This is a very gray area for me. Writing poetry is a personal calling that is innate to who I am and how I mostly identify myself as an artist and human being. It feels cellular to me. If I lived on Mars, I’d be writing poetry. While time moves forward time also moves inward. The art form is vast, intimate, and universal.
If your poems could talk back to you—if you could actually have a conversation with them—what do you think a piece like “Good Mother” would say about the way you wrote it and the emotions behind it?
My poems would trust me and appreciate my honesty and authenticity. Perhaps they would comfort me because they have witnessed my grief, which is always attached to love, firsthand. They would tell me they are helping me protect and celebrate a beautiful and wounded inner child. Perhaps they would encourage me to let go of my grief and focus more on love. For “Good Mother” I believe my poems would acknowledge my compassion and evolution as an artist.
How do you recognize when a poem has reached an emotional turning point, and how do you ensure that moment feels both authentic and powerful for the reader?
It takes a long time for me to locate grace or acceptance in my poetry. I don’t assume the poem will give or share that with me. If it happens, I’m very thankful. It’s the act of discovery that leaves me with revelation. To know what questions to ask or when to get still and simply listen. I never force the language. I have profound respect for this journey, which is so unpredictable and fulfilling.
Finally, are you currently working on a new collection of poems that will be published soon? I’d love to include a mention of your upcoming work in the written interview.
In January, I’ll publish my first memoir, The Flower Bearers, with Random House. One of the primary themes in the book is the genesis and development of my identity as a poet. It’s filled with poetry, light, and shadows. It’s a love letter to many poets, living and dead, who have helped me expand my understanding and existence through love.