To My Mother

kasih-ibu2 (1)

Most near, most dear, most love and most far,

Under the window where I often found her

Sitting as huge as Asia,  seismic with laughter,

Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand,

Irresistible as Rabelais, but most tender  for

Thhe lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her,–

She is a  procession no one can follow after

But be like a little dog following a brass band.

She will not glance up at the bomber, or condescend

To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar,

But lean on the mahogany  table  like a mountain

Whom only faith can move, and so I send

O all my faith and all my love to tell her

That she will move from mourning into morning.

By: George Barker

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s