Poets’s Corner: 3 For Mother’s Day From Rosemerry Trommer
Internet research came up with the history of Mother’s Day.
The tribute 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 three poems by our Word Woman, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer.
With regard to the first about the darkness, wish I had had Rosemerry around. Instead I had to make do with a night light.
And a word to the wise…
Mark your calendars for next weekend’s Telluride Literary Festival. Rosemerry is one of the Burrl Girls appearing at Lit Fest’s signature event, Literary Burlesque, which is Saturday night at the Ah Haa School. Go here for an event overview and where to get tickets for Burlesque.
Making Peace with the Darkness
You need not fear the night, my child.
Evening comes to everything.
It finds the raspberries by the road,
it finds the rabbit in her hole.
It finds the river and all its swells.
The evening comes to everything.
As silently as the rainbow bends
the evening comes to everything.
And the roadrunner stops his running
and the honey bees stop their buzzing
and the rattlesnakes stop their sunning
as the evening comes to everything.
As dark and graceful as raven’s wings,
the evening comes to everything.
Even the raindrops as they are falling,
and the Rosa woodsii as it’s blooming
and the wily raccoon who goes exploring,
yes, the evening comes to everything.
I used to fear the darkness, too,
and prayed all night for morning.
But feel how evening holds the world—
the animals, the boys, the girls,
the moms, the dads, the plants, the birds,
it holds us together, our differences blur—
oh, evening come to everything.
Reading The Secret Garden
Curled on the couch
my daughter and I
get lost for an hour
on the English moor
where the golden gorse
and the purple heather
grow wild around
the empty manor,
where once upon a time ago
I found the same garden
with the same brass key
and the same white lilies
and the same rose trees
while curled on the lap
of my own sweet mother
on another couch
in another home. I feel
in my girl the same thrill
I once felt as the story unfolds
and the characters all
learn just how much
there is to unlock.
Not far from this couch,
our small garden waits
for spring to unwinter
the frozen soil. I like to imagine
something stirring out there
in the dark beneath the snow—
the strawberry roots?
or oregano? But it is just
an imagining. Here on the couch,
there is perhaps a blossoming:
a girl who says, “Mommy,
what will happen next?”
and a mother who
feels inside of her
some long forgotten door
By early afternoon, I have become
my mother. Despite mounting evidence
that the world is falling apart, I find
reasons to be grateful. The light in the leaves,
for instance. And the scent of the mint
in the garden that I let grow rampant,
the way my mother did. It is not that
I do not want to become my mother.
No, she was happy to become her mother,
and I am happy to become mine. Not
that I have any choice. I nod too much
and stay up too late and wear clothes
out of style because they make me happy.
I am glad I finally stopped fighting it.
After all, the world is falling apart,
and it’s easier to meet this fact
with a smile that often finds my face and some
very comfortable, though ugly, shoes.
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