poems to a mother

Almost everyone, at some point, has written or dedicated poems to a mother, from the great authors to ordinary people who have never thought of dedicating themselves formally to poetry. And it is not uncommon for this to happen, since we are talking about the being that gives life, to whom we owe the population of the world, the magnanimous gate through which humanity reaches these lands, an unequivocal synonym of tenderness and love.

It is "the mother", then, an inexhaustible poetic topic, an infinite source of inspiration for countless verses. From now on, a rich compendium of poems to a mother written by authors of the stature of the Uruguayan Mario Benedetti, the Chilean Gabriela Mistral, the American Edgar Allan Poe, the Peruvians César Vallejo and Julio Heredia, the Cuban José Martí and the Venezuelan Angel Marino Ramirez.

“The mother now”, by the Uruguayan poet Mario Benedetti

twelve years ago

when i had to go

I left my mother by her window

looking at the avenue

 

now i get it back

only with a cane difference

 

in twelve years passed

before his window some things

parades and raids

student breakouts

crowds

rabid fists

and gas from tears

provocations

shots away

official celebrations

clandestine flags

alive recovered

 

after twelve years

my mother is still at her window

looking at the avenue

 

Or maybe he doesn't look at her

just review your insides

I don't know if out of the corner of the eye or out of the blue

without even blinking

 

sepia pages of obsessions

with a stepfather who made him

straighten nails and nails

or with my French grandmother

who distilled spells

or with his unsociable brother

who never wanted to work

 

so many detours I imagine

when she was a manager in a store

when he made kids clothes

and some colored rabbits

that everyone praised him

 

my sick brother or me with typhus

my good and defeated father

for three or four lies

but smiling and bright

when the source was gnocchi

 

she checks her insides

eighty seven years of gray

keep thinking distracted

and some accent of tenderness

it has slipped away like a thread

you don't meet your needle

 

as if he wanted to understand her

when I see her the same as before

wasting the avenue

but at this point what else

I can do that amuse her

with true or invented stories

buy him a new tv

or hand him his cane.

 

“Caricia”, by the Chilean poet Gabriela Mistral

Mother, mother, you kiss me

but i kiss you more

and the swarm of my kisses

won't even let you look...

 

If the bee enters the lily,

you don't feel its fluttering.

when you hide your son

You can't even hear him breathe...

 

I watch you, I watch you

without getting tired of looking,

and what a cute boy I see

to your eyes appear...

 

The pond copies everything

what you are looking at;

but you have girls

your son and nothing else.

 

the eyes that you gave me

I have to spend them

in following you through the valleys,

by the sky and by the sea...

 

“LXV”, by the Peruvian poet César Vallejo

Mother, I'm going to Santiago tomorrow,

to get wet in your blessing and in your tears.

I am accommodating my disappointments and the pink

sore of my false trajines.

 

Your arc of wonder will await me,

the tonsured columns of your desires

that life ends. The patio will wait for me

the corridor below with its tondos and repulgos

partying. My chair will wait for me, ayo

that good jawed piece of dynastic

leather, that for no more grumbling to the buttocks

great-great-granddaughters, from leash to bindweed.

 

I am sifting through my purest affection.

I'm ejecting can't you hear the probe panting?

don't you hear hitting targets?

I am capturing your formula of love

for all the holes in this floor.

 

Oh if the unspoken flyers were laid out

for all the most distant tapes,

for all the most distinct appointments.

 

Thus, dead immortal. So.

Under the double arches of your blood, where

you have to go so tiptoe, that even my father

to go there,

humbled himself to less than half of man,

until being the first little one you had.

 

Thus, dead immortal.

Between the colonnade of your bones

that cannot fall or cry,

and whose side not even fate could meddle

not a single finger of his.

 

Thus, dead immortal.

A) Yes.

To My Mother, by American poet Edgar Allan Poe

Because I believe that in the heavens, above,

the angels that whisper to each other

They do not find among their words of love

none so devoted as "Mother",

 

since always you I have given that name,

you who are more than mother to me

and you fill my heart, where death

set you free the soul of Virginia.

 

My own mother, who died very soon

It was nothing but my mother, but you

you are the mother of whom I loved,

 

and so you are dearer than that one,

just like, infinitely, my wife

loved my soul more than itself.

 

“My mother went to heaven”, by the Venezuelan poet Ángel Marino Ramírez

my mother went to heaven

with his father on his back,

singing his star prayer

and proud of her magic lantern.

Three things guided his life;

the claim of faith is one,

mix the corn with the water; other,

raise your family, another.

 

My mother went to heaven

She didn't go alone, she took her prayer with her,

she left surrounded by many mysteries,

of his harsh-voiced litanies,

of his tales of hot budare,

of his anxious bustle of temples

and his misunderstanding of death.

A memory does not displace life,

but it fills the gap.

 

My mother went to heaven

without asking anything,

without saying goodbye to anyone,

without closing the lock,

without his energetic expression,

without the jar of his harsh childhood,

without the path of the water hole.

 

My mother went to heaven

and my despair is to remember her.

I am left with an arbitrary image

that I will sculpt writing of her.

On the eve of a verse, there it will be.

In the difficulty of a problem, it will be there.

In the joy of a triumph, there it will be.

In the essence of a decision, there it will be.

In the imaginary orbit of his grandchildren, there he will be.

And when I look at the mighty lamp of heaven,

there it will be.

 

“A poem that is Elena”, by the Peruvian poet Julio Heredia

Julio Heredia

It was the black girl.

 

After Adriana's departure, he had

for all relatives to the city.

Then it grew like the lilies

field

as he picks up the book

first of metaphors

 

Gradual time that brought her

by atriums of Barranco and the sea of ​​Magdalena.

On the eve she was a native of a street

whose sign no longer remains and, to date, will confuse

his eyes on a night in La Perla,

from that port of Callao.

 

When puberty will have dressed old fashioned

and their works and their days show off their tears.

But those who have heard it will report that

Wipe your smile from the tears, they will say that

embodies the dynamics of palm trees

swayed by the sea

 

Elena is the reason for that compliment.

Rubber doll and pitch aid at first

lady Of A Castle Fetish,

that for such he had to assent to roulette

that she decided: from the orchards of San Miguel

to the huts of Raquel and her kidnapper.

 

Follow the slum line, circle the city.

Now it is she who protects the fate of the crazy woman.

Flee from clumsiness, from lethargy, from the captor.

And chasing the tracks left by the train

has arrived where the good old man of the solar

of reeds and adobes that fell into silence.

 

She, fire in the braceros of the camper.

Study the first and last letters.

He has worked and learned so far

in which the beast becomes very human.

She, airs of the Caribbean.

Ella, they are from her battle.

 

On the day of July, when the sun covers it, it is born

without the boast of those who come and go without gestures.

its origin,

unknown or some inventor of pain relievers.

I would assure that it comes from warriors, that it has

the germ with which heraldry and a dynasty are founded.

 

Her nipples are wisely equidistant so that,

when breastfeeding, cancels the fratricidal instinct

of Rómulo, which is me / of Remo, which is the other.

He has given birth four times with the triumph of his contest,

saved by her own gifts,

and so, with the love of Benjamin.

 

And so, with the love of Benjamin,

You want your smile to last.

Yesterday sheltered in the marsupia

is (I have noticed)

a poet who now

I give you.

 

"Mother of my soul", by the Cuban poet José Martí

Mother of the soul, dear mother

they are your natives; I want to sing

because my soul of love swollen,

Although very young, you never forget

that life had to give me.

 

The years go by, the hours fly

that by your side I feel like going,

for your captivating caresses

and the looks so seductive

that make my strong chest beat.

 

I constantly ask God

for my mother immortal life;

because it is very pleasant, on the forehead

feel the touch of a burning kiss

that from another mouth is never the same.

 

"The orphanage of an old man", by the Venezuelan poet Juan Ortiz

It does not matter when the orphanage arrives:

be as a child,

as an adult,

of old…

When coming,

one is left without a wick to tie him to the ground,

without dams in the eyes,

man makes a sea that sees only himself,

without horizon or shore,

a blade that is cut with each end its own edge.

 

Anchor of my boat,

"God bless you, mijo" who no longer visits,

parts where my name is born in every unexpected moment,

and I fade down the floor without the right to truce,

without possible cooing,

because the remedy would be your voice,

and like you,

he's absent.

 

Under this city that you erected with your hunger and sleeplessness,

with the cards on the table,

iron shield of flesh, skin and bone,

there is a boy who calls you,

that lies in nostalgia

refusing to understand how his favorite grapevine no longer gives shade.

 

Mother,

I must write to you

there is no love in the ashes

nor in the fire that in a hurry

he erased the body he brought me.

 

Behind beetles a little boy with gray hair cries,

yearns for a voice,

the eloquent flora of a hug,

tenderness that comforts a thursday in pieces

scattered for that night that is not expected.

 

Today on the sidewalk

in the hour of orphanages,

of the impossible cluster of goodbyes

—like yesterday assembling arepas,

serving the inherited stew,

and tomorrow in other things and the day after and the day after…—

I receive again the ferocious beasts of the farewell

of the magnanimous door, strong and sweet

that brought my soul to this life,

and no matter who comes along with your essentials,

no words are worth

no sea salt in the wound...

mother,

I must write to you

mother…

mother…

mother…