Mother Poems - Poems For Mother
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Mother To Son - Poem by Langston Hughes
Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
Comments about Mother To Son by Langston Hughes
Mother To Son
The Negro Mother
In Memory Of My Mother
A Bronzeville Mother Loiters In Mississi..
Mother Doesn'T Want A Dog
To My Mother
Edgar Allan Poe
The Sad Mother
Mother O' Mine
What A Mother Should Be
Some Advice From A Mother To Her Married..
To My Mother
Mother And Poet
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I Ask My Mother To Sing
Child And Mother
Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear
Mother, Among The Dustbins
Mom (Mother Mother Mother Mother Mother)
Udiah (witness to Yah)
My Mother Was Fortune, My Father Generos..
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
Sonnet To My Mother
Prayer For A New Mother
Robert William Service
Mother And Babe
The Chimney-Sweeper: When My Mother Died..
Lovina Sylvia Chidi
To My Mother
Robert Louis Stevenson
Nature The Gentlest Mother Is
A Mother Gazes Upon Her Daughter
Lucy Maud Montgomery
Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel
Walter Savage Landor
Mother And Child
Pensive On Her Dead Gazing, I Heard The ..
A Young Child And His Pregnant Mother
O Germany, Pale Mother!
The Virgin Mother
David Herbert Lawrence
Mother On Mothers Day
Joanne Bailey Baxter
Nature, The Gentlest Mother,
Henry Van Dyke
Monologue Of A Mother
David Herbert Lawrence
00 - My Mother
Vikram G. Aarella
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
Our Mother Pocahontas
Robert William Service
Isabella Valancy Crawford
The Mother Mourns
The Mother Of A Poet
Frank Dalby Davison
New Mother Poems
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- Buried Soul, Arun Maji
- Mother(Mother' Day 2020), Prabir Gayen
- M. O. T. H. E. R, Jullz Poetry
- Mother And Mother Nature, Upendra Majhi
- Asthi-Kalasha (A Series Of Poems), Bijay Kant Dubey
- Respect Your Mother, Dawn Lochridge
- Asthi-Kalasha (A Poem), Bijay Kant Dubey
- Mother Told Me, Emmanuel Arunee Mwanza
- Mother Leads Us On Board (from WILD GRAS.., Hiromi Itō
In Memory Of My Mother
I do not think of you lying in the wet clay Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see You walking down a lane among the poplars On your way to the station, or happily Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday - You meet me and you say: 'Don't forget to see about the cattle - ' Among your earthiest words the angels stray. And I think of you walking along a headland Of green oats in June, So full of repose, so rich with life - And I see us meeting at the end of a town On a fair day by accident, after The bargains are all made and we can walk Together through the shops and stalls and markets Free in the oriental streets of thought. O you are not lying in the wet clay, For it is a harvest evening now and we Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight And you smile up at us - eternally.
The Negro Mother
Children, I come back today To tell you a story of the long dark way That I had to climb, that I had to know In order that the race might live and grow. Look at my face - dark as the night - Yet shining like the sun with love's true light. I am the dark girl who crossed the red sea Carrying in my body the seed of the free. I am the woman who worked in the field Bringing the cotton and the corn to yield. I am the one who labored as a slave, Beaten and mistreated for the work that I gave - Children sold away from me, I'm husband sold, too. No safety, no love, no respect was I due. Three hundred years in the deepest South: But God put a song and a prayer in my mouth. God put a dream like steel in my soul. Now, through my children, I'm reaching the goal. Now, through my children, young and free, I realized the blessing deed to me. I couldn't read then. I couldn't write. I had nothing, back there in the night. Sometimes, the valley was filled with tears, But I kept trudging on through the lonely years. Sometimes, the road was hot with the sun, But I had to keep on till my work was done: I had to keep on! No stopping for me - I was the seed of the coming Free. I nourished the dream that nothing could smother Deep in my breast - the Negro mother. I had only hope then, but now through you, Dark ones of today, my dreams must come true: All you dark children in the world out there, Remember my sweat, my pain, my despair. Remember my years, heavy with sorrow - And make of those years a torch for tomorrow. Make of my pass a road to the light Out of the darkness, the ignorance, the night. Lift high my banner out of the dust. Stand like free men supporting my trust. Believe in the right, let none push you back. Remember the whip and the slaver's track. Remember how the strong in struggle and strife Still bar you the way, and deny you life - But march ever forward, breaking down bars. Look ever upward at the sun and the stars. Oh, my dark children, may my dreams and my prayers Impel you forever up the great stairs - For I will be with you till no white brother Dares keep down the children of the Negro Mother.
Abortions will not let you forget. You remember the children you got that you did not get, The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair, The singers and workers that never handled the air. You will never neglect or beat Them, or silence or buy with a sweet. You will never wind up the sucking-thumb Or scuttle off ghosts that come. You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh, Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye. I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed children. I have contracted. I have eased My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck. I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized Your luck And your lives from your unfinished reach, If I stole your births and your names, Your straight baby tears and your games, Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches, and your deaths, If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths, Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate. Though why should I whine, Whine that the crime was other than mine?-- Since anyhow you are dead. Or rather, or instead, You were never made. But that too, I am afraid, Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said? You were born, you had body, you died. It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried. Believe me, I loved you all. Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you All.
A Bronzeville Mother Loiters In Mississippi. Meanwhile, A Mississippi Mother Burns Bacon
From the first it had been like a Ballad. It had the beat inevitable. It had the blood. A wildness cut up, and tied in little bunches, Like the four-line stanzas of the ballads she had never quite understood--the ballads they had set her to, in school. Herself: the milk-white maid, the "maid mild" Of the ballad. Pursued By the Dark Villain. Rescued by the Fine Prince. The Happiness-Ever-After. That was worth anything. It was good to be a "maid mild." That made the breath go fast. Her bacon burned. She Hastened to hide it in the step-on can, and Drew more strips from the meat case. The eggs and sour-milk biscuits Did well. She set out a jar Of her new quince preserve. . . . But there was something about the matter of the Dark Villain. He should have been older, perhaps. The hacking down of a villain was more fun to think about When his menace possessed undisputed breath, undisputed height, And best of all, when history was cluttered With the bones of many eaten knights and princesses. The fun was disturbed, then all but nullified When the Dark Villain was a blackish child Of Fourteen, with eyes still too young to be dirty, And a mouth too young to have lost every reminder Of its infant softness. That boy must have been surprised! For These were grown-ups. Grown-ups were supposed to be wise. And the Fine Prince--and that other--so tall, so broad, so Grown! Perhaps the boy had never guessed That the trouble with grown-ups was that under the magnificent shell of adulthood, just under, Waited the baby full of tantrums. It occurred to her that there may have been something Ridiculous to the picture of the Fine Prince Rushing (rich with the breadth and height and Mature solidness whose lack, in the Dark Villain, was impressing her, Confronting her more and more as this first day after the trial And acquittal (wore on) rushing With his heavy companion to hack down (unhorsed) That little foe. So much had happened, she could not remember now what that foe had done Against her, or if anything had been done. The breaks were everywhere. That she could think Of no thread capable of the necessary Sew-work. She made the babies sit in their places at the table. Then, before calling HIM, she hurried To the mirror with her comb and lipstick. It was necessary To be more beautiful than ever. The beautiful wife. For sometimes she fancied he looked at her as though Measuring her. As if he considered, Had she been worth it? Had she been worth the blood, the cramped cries, the little stirring bravado, The gradual dulling of those Negro eyes, The sudden, overwhelming little-boyness in that barn? Whatever she might feel or half-feel, the lipstick necessity was something apart. HE must never conclude That she had not been worth it. HE sat down, the Fine Prince, and Began buttering a biscuit. HE looked at HIS hands. More papers were in from the North, HE mumbled. More maddening headlines. With their pepper-words, "bestiality," and "barbarism," and "Shocking." The half-sneers HE had mastered for the trial worked across HIS sweet and pretty face. What HE'd like to do, HE explained, was kill them all. The time lost. The unwanted fame. Still, it had been fun to show those intruders A thing or two. To show that snappy-eyed mother, That sassy, Northern, brown-black-- Nothing could stop Mississippi. HE knew that. Big fella Knew that. And, what was so good, Mississippi knew that. They could send in their petitions, and scar Their newspapers with bleeding headlines. Their governors Could appeal to Washington . . . "What I want," the older baby said, "is 'lasses on my jam." Whereupon the younger baby Picked up the molasses pitcher and threw The molasses in his brother's face. Instantly The Fine Prince leaned across the table and slapped The small and smiling criminal. She did not speak. When the HAND Came down and away, and she could look at her child, At her baby-child, She could think only of blood. Surely her baby's cheek Had disappeared, and in its place, surely, Hung a heaviness, a lengthening red, a red that had no end. She shook her had. It was not true, of course. It was not true at all. The Child's face was as always, the Color of the paste in her paste-jar. She left the table, to the tune of the children's lamentations, which were shriller Than ever. She Looked out of a window. She said not a word. That Was one of the new Somethings-- The fear, Tying her as with iron. Suddenly she felt his hands upon her. He had followed her To the window. The children were whimpering now. Such bits of tots. And she, their mother, Could not protect them. She looked at her shoulders, still Gripped in the claim of his hands. She tried, but could not resist the idea That a red ooze was seeping, spreading darkly, thickly, slowly, Over her white shoulders, her own shoulders, And over all of Earth and Mars. He whispered something to her, did the Fine Prince, something about love and night and intention. She heard no hoof-beat of the horse and saw no flash of the shining steel. He pulled her face around to meet His, and there it was, close close, For the first time in all the days and nights. His mouth, wet and red, So very, very, very red, Closed over hers. Then a sickness heaved within her. The courtroom Coca-Cola, The courtroom beer and hate and sweat and drone, Pushed like a wall against her. She wanted to bear it. But his mouth would not go away and neither would the Decapitated exclamation points in that Other Woman's eyes. She did not scream. She stood there. But a hatred for him burst into glorious flower, And its perfume enclasped them--big, Bigger than all magnolias. The last bleak news of the ballad. The rest of the rugged music. The last quatrain.