As a part of my initiative to publish poems that I deeply connect with or am moved by, I share this poem titled Of Mothers, among other things, which is weaved sublimely by a famous Indian poet A.K.Ramanujan.
I smell upon this twisted blackbone tree
the silk and whitepetal of my mother’s youth.
From her earrings three diamonds
splash a handful of needles,
and I see my mother run back
from rain to the crying cradles.
The rains tack and sew
with broken threads the rags
of the tree tasseled light.
But her hands are a wet eagle’s
two black-pink crinkled feet,
one talon crippled in a garden-
trap set for a mouse. Her saris
do not cling: they hang, loose
feather of a one time wing.
My cold parchment tongue licks bark
in the mouth when I see her four
still sensible fingers slowly flex
to pick a grain of rice from the kitchen floor.