More Mom Poems; It’s Mothers’ Day in Sweden

Borta bra men hemma bäst.

Away is good but home is best.



Well, we had so many poems for Mothers’ Day, we’re revisiting today for Mothers’ Day in Sweden.  Enjoy these by bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov), Isadora de la Vega, and Anjum Wasim Dar, along with a two of my own.  We love mom’s … which is not say, of course, that we don’t love dads.



Your Mother Is Always with You
.
your Mother is always with You
    She’s the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street.
    She’s the smell of certain foods you remember.
     She’s the flowers that you pick, of the perfume that she wore.
She’s your breath in the air on a cold winter’s day.
    She is the sound of the rain that lulls you to sleep,
She’s in your laughter, crystalized in every tear,
She’s the place you came from, your first home.
    She’s the map you follow with every step you take.
    She’s your first love, your first friend, even your first enemy,
    nothing on earth can separate you.
    Not time … Not space … Not even death!
.

© 2019, Isadora DeLaVega


My Mother’s Season

Is that the season?
The leaves are hitting the silent windows
and some roots of trees are creaking,
but I am a dream.
I do not recognize the colors,
when the sun of that town
without time shelters me like Mum.
Which flowers shall I gift to you?
I am not a saint – I cannot revive you.
I cannot even grief.

To gift to you – a last flower.

© 2019, bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov)


Mother , You Are A Peace Maker’

Mother took me to a place new
unknown unfamiliar people around,
I felt afraid ,I cried, ,I held hard onto
her coat sleeve-I was pulled away

I shivered as if put in a cold water pool
Mother, for my good, left me in a school-
Mother looked down at me silently
and I pleaded silently as I looked up’

Then I saw her no more ,tears slipped
back, mind still ,thoughtless I sat on a stool
all I saw was a large blackboard, someone
tall by its side, arms moving, as if in a duel,

wearing a long straight white gown-
I just sat and looked I felt lost, my peaceful
world broke, then sounds like bells I did hear,
then dry for a while were the eyes, no tear’-

Mother Dear where are you’ I thought
I am looking all over for you’ around
and now I know that my peace is where-
in Mother’s love it is, it is in her care,

Mother please know you are the best
care taker…Mother you are the only
real peace maker’ now I am sure
Peace Can Come surely, if only, Mother is there.

– © 2017, Anjum Wasim Dar from her Peace Poems Collection 


squeezing a penny

my mother never knew the names for things
the trees were just trees, the flowers just flowers,
she knew life as a sigh and aspiration as a linchpin,
she could get to work and maneuver in the dark,
she could squeeze a penny too
and force tired feet into worn shoes

© 2013, Jamie Dedes

And let us not forget the mothers who are marginalized, have lost their children, and are in pain.

Some Mothers’ Hearts Have Stopped

Some mothers’ children stare unseeing
No sweet, wet baby kisses from blistered lips,

. . . . songs unsung

No wedding portraits to dust and treasure
No graduations or trips to the sea

. . . . just their bodies to bury

crushed
beaten
stilled

by the engine of nihilism

Limbs cracked and broken, bellies torn
Faces purpled, hearts stopped

Hearts stopped …
. . . . hearts stopped

Some mothers’ hearts have stopped

© 2015, Jamie Dedes


ABOUT

Play Nice, a poem

Syrian refugee children attend a lesson in a UNICEF temporary classroom in northern Lebanon, July 2014

Millions of children are on the move. Some are driven from their homes by conflict, poverty or disaster; others are migrating in the hope of finding a better, safer life. Far too many encounter danger, detention, deprivation and discrimination on their journeys.” UNICEF MORE



...no fair
shout it like an indignant child
no fair, the dispossessed and hungry,
no fair, the murdered and the maimed,
no fair, the great disruption and those

forced to abandoned hopes, homes
the children flee only to camp out
without country, on swollen borders,
escaping by rough land or bloated boat,
starving, bewildered and lost

it’s not fair, not fair, it’s just not fair
this human condition, call it insanity,
the adults who don’t play nice as our
mothers, each one of them, bid us do

“Almost 1 in 10 children live in areas affected by armed conflicts.” UNICEF

© 2019, poem, Jamie Dedes; photo credit Russel Watkins, DFID – UK Department for International Development under CC BY 2.0 generic license




According to UNICEF’s Global Compact for Migration:

  • “Between 2005 and 2015, the number of child refugees worldwide more than doubled from four million to nine million
  • “Refugee children are five times as likely to be out of school than other children
  • Almost 1 in 10 children live in areas affected by armed conflicts. More than 400 million live in extreme poverty”

“Not long when I was a child,crossed barbed wires,across borders
in camp for two nights, wonder how Mother felt and held us? Tight
then on we came to the green hills, and I knew not,was it refuge ?
or a new land a home of peace-how attained?what was left with enemy-

“where are the roots that make a family,out of the masses who survived
you cannot guess,for I have seen only images and heard broken voices
who lost half the thought in trying not to remember,bodies cut slain in fields
why we laughed sang,then we cried silently in pain, in the remains”

– Anjum Wasim Dar, excerpt from a poem written out of her life experience

If you are reading this post from an email subscription, it’s likely you will have to link through to the site to view this very short video on The Global Compact for Migration / UNICEF.



ABOUT

CELEBRATING AMERICAN SHE-POETS (36): Effie Waller Smith, Bachelor Girl

She does not shirk, but does her work,
Amid the world’s fast hustling whirl,
And come what may, she’s here to stay,
The self-supporting “bachelor girl.”

– Effie Waller Smith in New Daughters of Africa: An International Anthology of Writing by Women of African Descen, Margaret Busby



Effie Waller Smith (1879 – 1960) was an African-American poet of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. She was smart, independent, and ahead of her time. Her collections are:  Songs of the Month (1904), Rhymes From the Cumberland (1904), and Rosemary and Pansies (1909). Her work was featured in local newspapers and in some of the major publications of the day.

Effie Waller was born to former slaves in the rural mountain community of Chloe Creek in Pike County, Kentucky, on a farm located a few miles from Pikeville.Her father, Frank Waller, migrated to the East Kentucky mountains sometime after the Civil War, having spent most of his early life as a laborer on a Virginia plantation. Her mother, Sibbie Ratliff, was born and raised in East Kentucky and met Frank Waller in the early 1870s. Effie was the third of four children.

Frank Waller was a blacksmith and a real estate speculator. Chloe Creek, the area in which the Wallers lived, was unusual for the time. It was racially integrated. The Wallers were responsible, hard-working, and clean-living.  Frank and Sibbie, realizing the limits of their own educations, were determined that their children would receive a quality education and Effie and her siblings were educated at Kentucky Normal School for Colored Persons in Frankfort, the capitol of Kentucky. Effie subsequently taught in Kentucky and Tennessee.

Effie Waller Smith’s work is worth reading. Unfortunately, the charges on Amazon and Alibris are outrageous and her work is not included in The Gutenberg Project, where you’d be able to download it for free. You might try connecting with Steve at Scholar and Poet Books, EB and Scholar and Poet Books, Abe Books  to see what he has at what price. You can find a few of her poems around on the Internet. Her poems The “Bachelor Girl and The Cuban Cause are included in New Daughters of Africa: An International Anthology of Writing by Women of African Descent, Margaret Busby. The “Bachelor Girl” is also posted on Literary Ladies HERE. I clipped Apple Sauce and Chicken Fried (posted below the video) from Poem Hunter.

With a nod to Wikipedia; Illustration: Public Domain

It you are reading this post from an email subscription, it’s likely you’ll have to link through to the site to view this video of Effie’s life and work.

Apple Sauce and Chicken Fried

You may talk about the knowledge
Which our farmers’ girls have gained
From cooking-schools and cook-books,
(Where all modern cooks are trained):
But I would rather know just how,
(Though vainly I have tried)
To prepare, as mother used to,
Apple sauce and chicken fried.

Our modern cooks know how to fix
Their dainty dishes rare,
But, friend, just let me tell you what!-
None of them can compare
With what my mother used to fix,
And for which I’ve often cried,
When I was but a little tot,-
Apple sauce and chicken fried.

Chicken a la Française,
And also fricassee,
Served with some new fangled sauce
Is plenty good for me,
Till I get to thinking of the home
Where once I used to ‘bide,
And where I used to eat,- um, my!
Apple sauce and chicken fried.

We always had it once a week,
Sometimes we had it twice;
And I have even known the time
When we have had it thrice.
Our good, yet jolly pastor,
During his circuit’s ride
With us once each week gave grateful thanks
For apple sauce and chicken fried.

Why, it seems like I can smell it,
And even taste it, too,
And see it with my natural eyes,
Though of course it can’t be true;
And it seems like I’m a child again,
Standing by mother’s side,
Pulling at her dress and asking
For apple sauce and chicken fried.

– Effie Waller Smith



ABOUT

Four poems by Jamie Dedes

Many thanks to poet/editor/activist, Reuben Woolley, for featuring four of my poems in “I Am Not a Slilent Poet.”

I am not a silent poet

the century of possible peace

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,after Muriel Rukeyser

I lived in the century of world wars and
into the century of “hot spots” and “conflicts,”
those isolated regions of hostility and battle, of
choreographed shows of military cliché and the
violent disaffected eruptions of the marginalized

Every day is an homage to some insanity
Media reports are conveyed with facile intensity
by hyperkinetic journalists – they deliver easy
and ominous conclusions based on seemingly
recondite facts, quickly moving to celebrity
gossip and other insipid topics . . .

I have lived in two centuries of wars
I know what it is to be exhausted by the
vain posturing of the ruling class and
the tired protestations of tribal unity and
supremacy based on accidents of birth

I know what it is to imagine peace across
the circumference of one small blue ball
in a Universe of inestimable size and…

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