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  • A.K Ramajuna of Mother, Among Other Things

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    Md Kashif Nezami
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    The poem describes memories of the speaker's mother through images of nature. It recalls her youth and beauty represented by the silk and white petals of a blackbone tree. It also remembers her running through the rain to comfort crying children. The final lines depict the speaker's tongue sticking to bark as they see their mother's aged hands slowly flexing to pick up a single grain of rice, representing her fragility over time.

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    A.k Ramajuna of Mother, Among Other Things

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    The poem describes memories of the speaker's mother through images of nature. It recalls her youth and beauty represented by the silk and white petals of a blackbone tree. It also remembers her running through the rain to comfort crying children. The final lines depict the speaker's tongue sticking to bark as they see their mother's aged hands slowly flexing to pick up a single grain of rice, representing her fragility over time.

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    2K views1 page

    A.K Ramajuna of Mother, Among Other Things

    Uploaded by

    Md Kashif Nezami
    The poem describes memories of the speaker's mother through images of nature. It recalls her youth and beauty represented by the silk and white petals of a blackbone tree. It also remembers her running through the rain to comfort crying children. The final lines depict the speaker's tongue sticking to bark as they see their mother's aged hands slowly flexing to pick up a single grain of rice, representing her fragility over time.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Flag for inappropriate content
    Download as docx, pdf, or txt
    of 1

    Of Mother, Among Other Things

    - 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 tasselled 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.

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