Tag Archives: mothers

Under her raincoat.

poetry, ,

THE RAINCOAT

When the doctor suggested surgery
and a brace for all my youngest years,
my parents scrambled to take me
to massage therapy, deep tissue work,
osteopathy, and soon my crooked spine
unspooled a bit, I could breathe again,
and move more in a body unclouded
by pain. My mom would tell me to sing
songs to her the whole forty-five-minute
drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty-
five minutes back from physical therapy.
She’d say that even my voice sounded unfettered
by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang,
because I thought she liked it. I never
asked her what she gave up to drive me,
or how her day was before this chore. Today,
at her age, I was driving myself home from yet
another spine appointment, singing along
to some maudlin but solid song on the radio,
and I saw a mom take her raincoat off
and give it to her young daughter when
a storm took over the afternoon. My god,
I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her
raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel
that I never got wet.

-Ada Limón

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m pretty sure the photo was taken by Farm Girl Kim; used with permission ❤

There will come a glory in your eyes.

poetry, women,

THE MOTHER

There will be a singing in your heart,
There will be a rapture in your eyes;
You will be a woman set apart,
You will be so wonderful and wise.
You will sleep, and when from dreams you start,
As of one that wakes in Paradise,
There will be a singing in your heart,
There will be a rapture in your eyes.

There will be a moaning in your heart,
There will be an anguish in your eyes;
You will see your dearest ones depart,
You will hear their quivering good-byes.
Yours will be the heart-ache and the smart,
Tears that scald and lonely sacrifice;
There will be a moaning in your heart,
There will be an anguish in your eyes.

There will come a glory in your eyes,
There will come a peace within your heart;
Sitting ‘neath the quiet evening skies,
Time will dry the tear and dull the smart.
You will know that you have played your part;
Yours shall be the love that never dies:
You, with Heaven’s peace within your heart,
You, with God’s own glory in your eyes.

-Robert Service

Mothers Newly Gone

poetry, ,

Here is another poem by Miriam Pederson. Though she refers to mothers, in my case it makes me think more of my grandmother.

One tradition I was fond of in the Presbyterian church of my childhood was tied to Mother’s Day, when every person in the congregation was noticed for having a mother, and given a rose to commemorate her. I am not certain about this, but I think it was a white rose if she had died, a red rose if she were living. It might have been the first time I as a child was made to feel equal in some way to the adults. We all had mothers, and my rose was no different from everyone else’s.

MOTHERS NEWLY GONE

Our mothers are leaving us.
One by one they flutter through the door
as if we had expected it,
as if we had prepared
for this good-bye.
We can hardly follow their recipes.
Their remedies for flu,
for heartache, are somewhere
in the cupboard;
the names of relatives to be invited
are mixed in with the old Green Stamps.
How can we, their busy daughters,
sew on patches to make things last?
What are we to do
with these old compacts,
these letters, cards and cold creams?
How will we behave
without their disapproving frowns,
their Listen, honey…
their Oh, sweetheart!
We’re standing up straight,
we’re being kind,
and we’ve sent off the thank-you notes,
but they are minding other business
beyond the blue,
leaving us in middle age
to sift through their precious lives
for clues to who we are.

-Miriam Pederson

Stefan Luchian, Roses

This is the way to enter and leave.

love, poetry, women, ,

WHAT IS OUR DEEPEST DESIRE?

To be held this way in our mother’s arms,
to be nestled deep in the warmth
of her body, her gaze,
to be adored, to overwhelm her
with our sweetness.
This is what we seek in chocolate,
in the food and drink and drugs
that stun the senses, that fill the veins
with the rich cream of well being.
What we take for lust—can it be, perhaps,
a heavy pang of longing to be swaddled,
close, close to the heartbeat of our mother?
No bucket seats, Jacuzzi, or even a lover’s embrace
can duplicate this luxuriance,
this centered place on the roiling planet.

When the old woman, small and light,
can be carried in the arms of her son,
he, at first, holds her tentatively,
a foreign doll,
but gradually, as the pool loses its ripples,
he sees his face in hers
and draws her to him,
rocking to the rhythm of her breathing.
This is the way to enter and leave the world.

-Miriam Pederson

Pablo Picasso, Mother and Son on the Shore