With Mother’s Day coming up next Sunday, I’m adding to last year’s list of poems that I love about motherhood. Enjoy!
1) From “Thanking My Mother for Piano Lessons” by Diane Wakoski (full text here):
I want to thank my mother
for letting me wake her up sometimes at 6 in the morning
when I practiced my lessons
and for making sure I had a piano
to lay my school books down on, every afternoon.
I haven’t touched the piano in 10 years,
perhaps in fear that what little love I’ve been able to
pick, like lint, out of the corners of pockets,
will get lost,
into the terribly empty cavern of me
if I ever open it all the way up again.
Love is a man
with a mustache
gently holding me every night,
always being there when I need to touch him;
he could not know the painfully loud
music from the past that
his loving stops from pounding, banging,
battering through my brain,
which does its best to destroy the precarious gray matter when I
he does not hear Mrs. Hillhouse’s canary singing for me,
liking the sound of my lesson this week,
confirming what my teacher says,
that I have a gift for the piano
few of her other pupils had.
When I touch the man
I want to thank my mother for giving me
all those years,
keeping the memory of Beethoven,
a deaf tortured man,
of the beauty that can come
from even an ugly
2) From “Waterwings” by Cathy Song (full text here):
I watch the circles
his small body makes
fan and ripple,
disperse like an echo
into the sum of water, light and air.
His imprint on the water
has but a brief lifespan,
the flicker of a dragonfly’s delicate wing.
This is sadness, I tell myself,
the morning he chooses to leave his wings behind,
because he will not remember
that he and beauty were aligned,
skimming across the water, nearly airborne,
on his first solo flight.
I’ll write “how he could not
contain his delight.”
At the other end,
in another time frame,
he waits for me—
having already outdistanced this body,
the one that slipped from me like a fish,
floating, free of itself.
3) From “The Puppet of the Wolf,” by Margaret Atwood (full text here):
This is a miracle, there is never
the wolf comes back whenever
he is called,
unwounded and intact;
piglets jump from my thumbs.
My dying right
hand, which knots and shrinks
drier and more cynical
each year, is immortal,
briefly, and innocent.
Together with my left hand, its
enemy and prey, it chases
my daughter through the warm air,
and muted with soapsuds, lifts her
into the water.
4) From “Taking Notice,” #13, by Marilyn Hacker:
another room, my daughter, home from school,
audibly murmurs “spanking, stupid, angry
voice” — a closet drama where I am
played second-hand to unresisting doll
daughters. Mother and daughter both, I see
myself, the furious and unforgiven;
myself, the terrified and terrible;
the child pushed into autonomy;
the unhealed woman hearing her own voice damn
her to the nightmares of the brooding girl.
5) From “Wanting a Child” by Jorie Graham (full text here):
Sometimes I’ll come this far from home
merely to dip my fingers in this glittering, archaic
sea that renders everything
where mind and body
blur. The seagulls squeak, ill-fitting
hinges, the beach is thick
with shells. The tide
is always pulsing upward, inland, into the river’s rapid
with its insistent tragic waves — the living echo,
says my book, of some great storm far out at sea, too far
to be recalled by us
whole onto this shore by waves, so that erosion
is its very face.