11 May Poets’ Corner: Rosemerry for Mother’s Day
Mother’s Day was first suggested in 1872 by Julia Ward Howe (who wrote the words to the “Battle Hymn of the Republic”) as a day dedicated to peace.
In 1907, Philadelphian Ana Jarvis began a campaign to establish a national Mother’s Day. She persuaded her mother’s church in Grafton, W.V. to celebrate Mother’s Day on the second anniversary of her mother’s death, the second Sunday of May.
After establishing Mother’s Day in Philadelphia, Ana Jarvis and her supporters wrote to ministers, businessman, and politicians around the U.S. promoting the idea of a national Mother’s Day. They were successful, and by 1911 Mother’s Day was celebrated in almost every state. In 1914, President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed Mother’s Day a national holiday.
Some countries, including Australia, Belgium, Denmark, Finland, Italy, and Turkey, also celebrate Mother’s Day on the second Sunday of May. But other countries of the world celebrate their own Mother’s Day at different times throughout the year. In the U.K., “Mothering Sunday” is celebrated on the fourth Sunday of Lent. Traditionally on Mothering Sunday, servants were encouraged to spend the day with their mothers, taking a special “mothering cake” as a tribute.
Mothering cakes. Flowers. Chocolate. Things in big boxes. Things in small boxes (even better). Telluride Inside… and Out offers a simple tribute in the form of two poignant poems by Word Woman Rosemerry Trommer, a mom who gifts-wraps love with eloquence.
(Rosemerry’s latest book of poetry, “Naked for Tea,” is available at Telluride’s Between the Covers or at Trommer’s website for just $19.95)
One Enormous Gratitude
my mother began my mornings
by singing to me “it’s going to be
such a lovely day”—
over thirty years later
I still believe her.
Fencing 101
It starts as tag. The instructor
tapes off a strip in the room—
the piste—and my son and I,
confined by the long bounds,
chase and reach for each other.
But the person who’s it
keeps changing. “Left,”
says the teacher, and I am it.
I lunge for my son’s arm, and
“Right,” says the teacher, and
I retreat as fast as I can,
my son now charging for me.
“Left.” “Right.” “Left.” “Right.”
We learn quickly to hold
our weight low, to keep
one foot forward, to allow
distance enough to tag
and not enough that we might
be tagged back.
The game is familiar. I flush
with young joy. Later
we learn to extend
our arms before we lunge,
to advance, to retreat,
to allow just the right distance
to strike, to not be struck.
The instructor gives us
a string to hold between us—
our goal is to keep the curve in it,
not to let it go too slack, too taught.
My son and I dance
forward and back, keeping
step with each other.
both of us smiling, both of us
serious as steel. When it’s done,
we shake what would be
our ungloved hands.
We have learned just enough
to know there’s so much more
to learn. As we leave, I feel
it still between us,
an invisible string, linking us
in this odd game of love,
the world our piste,
one hand always ready to battle,
the other hand, ever vulnerable,
ready to open, to reach,
to meet the other
with devastatingly effective
tenderness.
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