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« "On This Very Street in Belgrade" [by Charles Simic, born today] | Main | A poem from The Awl by Matthew Zapruder [posted by Mark Bibbins] »

May 09, 2021

Comments

Oh this stabs my heart with beauty and recognition.

another perfect pick terence, david's poems always (for me) soothe and startle at the same time, no easy feat and much admired by this reader

Thanks, mo chara. I knew you would like it.

Thank you, David and Terence, for making my day. xxo

oh, man. Perf. I got choked up. Thank you David !!!!

I'm verlempt, as we Catholics say (!). My children and a smattering of my grandchild had pre-Mother's Day dinner chez moi last night; I gave them a packable few of the family treasures with great joy, cheating Time, as it were. Thanks, both of you, David, Terence.

Glad you liked it, Diane.


Thanks for the comment, Clarinda.

How very real, and full of life. Thanks to David for writing, and to Terence for choosing it for this day.

This poem shines so brightly with love and grief and such a sharp recognition of evanescence.

This poem touches my heart. I love it and love that you find such wonderful offerings. 💝

Sad, beautiful, and true. A heartfelt poem for Mother's Day.


Glad you liked it, my dear sister.

Beth---thanks for tuning in.

I'd also like to draw attention to David's smart line breaks, for example, splitting "Dixie" from "cups." Nice photo,too. (You haven't changed a bit, David.)

oh such heart-breaking beauty. thank you David & Terence.

Superb poem, so evocative, elegantly expressed.

Elinor---thanks for the comment.

What a stunner this is. And I thought Elizabeth Bishop was provider of the greatest detail. David Trinidad shares the stage with her here, with a beautiful echo too, unintended I'm guessing, of Williams' great poem on his grandmother's last words. This is a poem to go back to and read more smoothly and with greater thrill each time. Glad to receive it, Terence, David.

Don: thanks. Great comment.

David's mother wanted more time, but wasn't she indeed ready! In a sense, her treasures were gathered with her: her jewels and, even more, the thought of those who would receive them. The action with her lipstick and comb seem to express her admirable composure and acceptance.

To state the obvious: Terence Winch's taste in verse by others is as spot-on as his own verse. This is a tender, quietly powerful portrait of a dying mother by her son, whose verbal gifts match the emotional value of his mother's jewelry. The details summoned by David Trinidad make perfect sense: We all tend to remember with almost disconcerting accuracy what matters in a moment like this one. It is more than memento mori. It is the intimate busyness of a mother's final business: parsing out gems and stating with stark simplicity that "we never / have enough time to enjoy our treasures." Of all the gems and gestures delineated in "Sonnet," that quote shines brightest. What a gift this poem is!


Earle---thanks for another richly insightful comment.

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