Mother Who Gave Me Life- Gwen Harwood (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter scholarly
- Start date
Here is the poem. I really liked it, hope you do to. 
Mother who gave me life
I think of women bearing
women. Forgive me the wisdom
I would not learn from you.
It is not for my children I walk
on earth in the light of the living.
It is for you, for the wild
daughters becoming women,
anguish of seasons burning
backward in time to those other
bodies, your mother, and hers
and beyond, speech growing stranger
on thresholds of ice, rock, fire,
bones changing, heads inclining
to monkey bosom, lemur breast,
guileless milk of the word.
I prayed you would live to see
Halley’s Comet a second time.
The Sister said, When she died
she was folding a little towel.
You left the world so, having lived
nearly thirty thousand days:
a fabric of marvels folded
down to a little space.
At our last meeting I closed
the ward door of heavy glass
between us, and saw your face
crumple, fine threadbare linen
worn, still good to the last,
then, somehow, smooth to a smile
so I should not see your tears.
Anguish: remembered hours:
a lamp on embroidered linen,
my supper set out, your voice
calling me in as darkness
falls on my father’s house.
MOTHER WHO GAVE ME LIFE
Mother who gave me life
I think of women bearing
women. Forgive me the wisdom
I would not learn from you.
It is not for my children I walk
on earth in the light of the living.
It is for you, for the wild
daughters becoming women,
anguish of seasons burning
backward in time to those other
bodies, your mother, and hers
and beyond, speech growing stranger
on thresholds of ice, rock, fire,
bones changing, heads inclining
to monkey bosom, lemur breast,
guileless milk of the word.
I prayed you would live to see
Halley’s Comet a second time.
The Sister said, When she died
she was folding a little towel.
You left the world so, having lived
nearly thirty thousand days:
a fabric of marvels folded
down to a little space.
At our last meeting I closed
the ward door of heavy glass
between us, and saw your face
crumple, fine threadbare linen
worn, still good to the last,
then, somehow, smooth to a smile
so I should not see your tears.
Anguish: remembered hours:
a lamp on embroidered linen,
my supper set out, your voice
calling me in as darkness
falls on my father’s house.