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 -
mom
when amidst
cultivated accents.
mumma
with an extra m
when I feel loved
or want her opinion.
ammi
when other muslims
talk about their ammis.
maa
when rats run in the stomach,
head desires an oil massage
or when socks are missing.
mummy
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,
Again?
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,
love
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