Write a poem on My Mother, My River.
pls Its Urgent
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Answers
Answer:
The sunrise observed in a puddle—a great metaphor.
* * *
St. Theresa of the Child Jesus: “I choose all.”
* * *
Why do I need these landscapes? The image of the sea draws me out of myself, forces all my attention to the surface so that I can cast my thought into the depths once again. As if an imaginative blow were needed for a longer, better-aimed thrust into the depths. Contemplation. The roots of my astonishment at the world cling tight to my inner life, in a tangle of memories, experiences, atavisms from both my own childhood and that of our species.
* * *
For fish death takes the shape of the beautiful white gull with widespread wings whose flight we trace with rapture.
* * *
I remembered the bombardment and the great light that preceded it. At first it fell from above, that beautiful, blinding, greenish light, so bright that it seemed to illuminate the earth’s every wrinkle. That light illuminates every person, every cell, vein, artery like an x-ray; everything is ready for death. It irradiates and exposes all that is hidden most deeply—terror, the body’s animal terror.
The light unmasks, cruelly, before killing. And that is why after the air raid a person rises ashamed: he hasn’t died, he’s still alive. It’s stripped him bare, to the death; that light has ripped the last confession from his body, but he hasn’t measured up, he couldn’t die. He lives on, duplicitous and frightened.
* * *
I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut.
* * *
The poet is a great mute. He wheezes his infirmity, mumbles, stutters, fumbles; his great error is human.
* * *
The sky creaks with the plumes of unread poets.
* * *
Chekhov’s grave, encountered unexpectedly in a Moscow cemetery. The frost shines like the gleam of his damp pince-nez.
* * *
Akhmatova. A thick volume of her collected poems, as if they were written by one person. But after all there were so many—from youth to old age. The elegant, refined lady and the old peasant who roars in pain and beats her forehead against the church floor: “Lord!” The poet thronged by crowds of admirers and snobs, and the old woman: wise, comprehending, like the earth, like a peasant rocking her dead child in her arms.
* * *
A whisper.
To speak in a whisper.
To whisper—like the sea.
* * *
To describe the home, a room. Its pits and abysses.
* * *
In Milaszewski’s play, Don Quixote says that you reach the other world only through the family home.
Answer:
Daughter,
Your mother will always be your mother
even after the bough breaks.
Somewhere at the end of the road
you will find her heart,
hidden beneath the shadows
that have kissed her body too often.
Daughter,
Someday you will reach up
and touch your mother’s face.
only to find that the pristine surface
has meandered into millions of tiny roads
Each line
a river of experience,
pockmarked by a lifetime of love.
When she raises her hand to greet you,
you will soon understand the meaning
of sacrifice.
And how often her eyes sheltered you
from the hand of the storm
that threatened to break you apart.
Daughter,
someday you will wake
and realize that your life
is a collusion of the Gods.
A three-stringed symphony
plucked by an invisible hand.
and your mother’s words
have become the notes
to life’s questions.
Even after you’ve forgotten the lyrics
your mind will conjure
the shape of her mouth
As she sings the words.
Daughter,
There will be days,
when you will feel more alone
than you will ever be able to say.
Someday you will feel
a tiny hand reach up
to caress your face.
On that day,
you will see love for what it is,
A tangent of light
bursting through the final curtain call.
For the first time
your life will become
an expression of beauty.