Posts Tagged ‘mother poem’

Poetry Friday round-up is with Bridget at wee words for wee ones.

Heidi Mordhorst has started a Facebook group Paradise, Paved for poets wanting a place to “park” their poems, for comment, critique, or just a safe place to land. She has been practicing writing in conversation with or after other poets. Like artists will copy a master painting, when poets copy a master, form frees expression. Magical, really.

I received a link to May Sarton’s poem, For my Mother, in an email from Poets.org. Using her poem as a mentor text, I wrote a poem for my mother.

For My Mother
after May Sarton

Once more
I listen
to the music
of my past
with harmony
rising in my throat.

At the piano
or stereo,
from choir to opera,
your notes
my bones.

Keeping a distance,
my ears remember
the vibrations
of the walls
I closed myself in.

Your song
brought us through
flood waters.
I remember laying out
sheet music to dry.
Then you made a home
with new walls.

Today I find the box of cards 
you collected
and choose one
to send you.

Maybe you will recognize the paper,
the handwriting, or the return address.
Maybe not.
It doesn’t matter.
I remember your song
and that is enough. 

Margaret Simon, draft

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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Poetry Friday round-up is with Mary Lee at A Year of Reading.

This month, Molly Hogan challenged the Sunday Night Swaggers to write a poem from a favorite line. The prompt can be found here. The idea is to find a line from a book or poem and use the line as your title. Write the poem, then change the title.

I recently had a pleasant email exchange with a friend. She sent me this Rumi poem, The Guest House. I took the line “This human being is a guest house.”

Mothers are on my mind lately as my oldest daughter gave birth to her second child, a daughter, on Monday, Nov. 30th. I was able to be there with her. There is nothing as wonderful and miraculous as childbirth. The baby, Stella Ross, did not cry. She was plump and pink and fine, but she didn’t cry. Amazing! She has since cried, but only when she’s uncomfortable, and she settles back down easily. She is truly an angel from heaven.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks
Maggie and Stella, love at first sight.

Mother is Home

Mothers welcome
a child’s tears
with embrace.

Joy lives here, too,
unexpected grace
of forgiveness.

She carries your furniture,
dusts it with lemon-scented Pledge,
scrubs the mud from the floor
you tread.

You do not have to be grateful.
You don’t have to say, “I love you.”
You don’t have to say anything.

She will hold your hand,
kiss the scratch, place the band-aid on.

No flourish.
She is your home.

Margaret Simon, draft

Read other poems from this challenge:

Catherine Flynn at Reading to the Core
Molly Hogan at Nix the Comfort Zone
Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe
Linda Mitchell at A Word Edgewise

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Poetry Friday round-up is with Linda at Teacher Dance.

Earlier this week, Sarah Donovan once again invited teacher-writers to join an Open Write. One of her brilliant inspirations came from this poem by Joseph Bruchac. I am so grateful for my daughters, the oldest of whom will soon deliver a daughter of her own. I am pleased with how the simple form worked to express the connection I feel.


When I place
my fingers
on the swell
of her womb,

like combing waves in an ocean
softly lapping 
to shore,

her skin
gently moves

as our time
ebbs & flows
mother to daughter
to daughter
in our own sea. 

Margaret Simon, 2020
Photo by Oleg Magni from Pexels

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Find more Poetry Friday with Becky at Tapestry of Words.

Find more Poetry Friday with Becky at Tapestry of Words.

A few weeks ago I attended a poetry writing workshop with our Louisiana state poet laureate, Ava Leavell Haymon. I posted about one of the exercises here. The second exercise she led us through began with an image. We were to remember a room, kitchen or bedroom. Then we drew it, recognizing that this was a prompt for writing and no great work of art.

I thought of my daughters’ bedroom, the one two of them shared growing up. The room was small. My husband had built a bunk bed for them. He is a good carpenter, but he doesn’t make anything halfway. This bed filled up the small room. In fact, when we moved, we left the bed. We could not get it out of the room.

Bunk Bed Fills the Room

That is the bedroom where
I looked at the mess,
sheets unmade,
the angry child
red with fury.

Her bunk bed filled the small space.
No room for my approval.

I could only see
the mess,
the wild squealing.

I forgot to look
under the sheets,
under the pile of toys,
under the dirty clothes
to see her child-heart.

–Margaret Simon

Mary Cassatt Young Mother Sewing

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