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Poetry Month: MOTHER

Updated: Apr 17, 2020


My mother affirms that

she and I are utterly

different just like

cheese and chalk.

I feel we are sides

of the same coin.

As she chooses,

with delicacy, love and patience,

ingredients to cook food that

nourish our mind and heart,

in that same way I choose words

for poetry that feed my soul.


My mother still removes the seeds from oranges before she gives them to me

Separating the sweet from the bitter

Offering me only the nicest pieces

Acting like my own shield of armour

Maybe that's why I've always been an eternal optimist

How can I possibly know the taste of sorrow

When I've only had to taste the sweet?


My mother. She is -


when amidst

cultivated accents.


with an extra m

when I feel loved

or want her opinion.


when other muslims

talk about their ammis.


when rats run in the stomach,

head desires an oil massage

or when socks are missing.


with an exclamation mark

when a cockroach comes

to say hi. .

a young woman

when she worries

about her aging skin.


One day

I will forget the sound the flints made

when you rubbed them so hard

your veins mapped out your skin;

the sparks that sparked

were flying fireflies

against the darkness behind my lids.

Together, they were a bowl

of viscous, velvet honey-

building my every limb out of

ground cinnamon and teak.

One day

when I will question

the thunder living in my stomach,

don’t be modest.

Show me your lava flowing through my veins.

Give me strength as you

pour pulse into my palms

so that

when I birth light-

my veins map out

my skin.

-On Giving Birth by Vasvi Kejriwal


She has nurtured us

Our mind, body and soul.

She has embraced us

With all her love.

Her caress so gentle,

Her hold so strong.

We have always found ourselves

dreaming in her warmth.

She has been

Patient and courageous

To raise us.

Selfless and forgiving

To bless us.

She had endured through all,

All of our

Heedless and insensitive behaviour.

She’s had enough

And now she’s vexed.

Will she forgive us,

And will embrace us,


Our mother nature!


There won't be a road named after her

she will not be mentioned in history

doesn't care about world affairs

nor worry about this country

books never interest her

she won't write poetry

but there's one dish

she alone makes,

there is a song

I can't sing,


I can't give,

there is patience

she alone contains,

an abode of selflessness

I am everything she won't be

she is everything I can never be

a punching bag I got gifted for free

Mother is an unfathomable mystery

she is a breathtakingly beautiful poetry


it’s been comforting

even fun, tracing back

all my issues to my mum

the way i panic a bit too long

reach conclusions a bit too soon

and how i still don’t have a clue

what I’m going to do with my life

because at my age she didn’t either

okay, unfair to blame that on her

when she only volunteered that

information to make me feel better

you remind me of me, she says

when i tell her i’m worried

i don’t sell myself very well

or look smart in front of the right people

there’s no sympathy in her response

no guidelines for what i should do

just a glimpse of what i would feel

if i wasn’t being true to me

a silent ‘tch, i know’

as if her life has been

the same kind of shit to her

maybe it’s in the way she doesn’t

patronize me with lies or advice

just states as a matter of fact

how she’s still okay despite it,

that i can tell we both feel better

knowing that if i’m anything like her,

i will be too

-okay by Sukanya



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