Sunday, July 26, 2009

In memory of my Mom:

Looking at the table to keep the memory of it living:

There being no hedge or fence round time
you can go back, have what you like

you can be the child that was
dipping at the well of remembrance

you can still feel how it felt
as though you were still small

smell the soup
watch it ladled

taste the mutton with your nostrils now
all those people are still alive

some leaning back with their eyes shut

some speaking with their mouths full

and you are sitting in your mothers lap.



  1. Mark,
    I am sorry to hear about your mother. It was a long ordeal, and you and your siblings have shown the next generation how to love and care.

    Your poem is beautiful. Here is a similar one by Yehuda Amichai.

    My condolences.



    My Mother on Her Sickbed

    My mother on her sickbed with the lightness
    and hollowness of a person
    Who has already said goodbye at an airport
    In the beautiful and quiet area
    Between parting and takeoff.

    My mother on her sickbed.
    All she had in her life is now
    Like empty bottles in front of the door
    That will show once more with colored labels
    What filled them with joy and sadness.

    Her last words, Take the flowers out of the room,
    She said seven days before her death,
    Then she closed herself for seven days,
    Like the seven days of mourning.

    But even her death created in her room
    A warm hominess
    With her sleeping face and the cup with its teaspoon
    And the towel and the book and the glasses,
    And her hand on the blanket, the same
    hand that felt my forehead, in childhood.

  2. Mark, your poem is lovely, as is the one that Edie posted. I hope you know to call. I will be home all day.