MOTHER

 

                                              Madonna of the Book by Sandro Botticelli, 1480

                                                                                           SOURCE

“Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mother's face.” — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Every word seems to quiver with life. A word is more than a word. It has its own picture of letters, image of its own, sound, and a soul living within the body of the word.

 Today I wish to celebrate the word Mother.

The word ‘Mother’ is extraordinary, fascinating, multifaceted and always inspiring to discover the spirit hidden within the word. What is that feminine energy throbbing with life? Mothers residing in all beings; motherland, mother earth, acclaimed mothers of novels, songs, art; legendary mothers of every land crowd the mind.    

I remember watching on YouTube a mother impala distracting a female cheetah from her new born calf and ultimately getting killed by the predator that dragged its body to her own cubs. 

I also remember my own mother who passed away recently leaving behind a wealth of memories.

 

A couple of poems to inspire:

Mother to Son

By Langston Hughes

Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

It’s had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor—

Bare.

But all the time

I’se been a-climbin’ on,

And reachin’ landin’s,

And turnin’ corners,

And sometimes goin’ in the dark

Where there ain’t been no light.

So boy, don’t you turn back.

Don’t you set down on the steps

’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.

Don’t you fall now—

For I’se still goin’, honey,

I’se still climbin’,

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

 

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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.

 

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What kind of image does the word Mother evoke in your mind? Write your poem in any form you wish.

  

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