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My Mother's Kitchen Last Edit 7/24/7
She hums in Spanish, a tune from
her youth. Hillbilly music in a
language that I refuse to speak,
reminds me of our chasm but I
know the meal will be good. I
open the refrigerator door and
she scolds me, 'Te vas arruinar
el apetito.'� ('You're going to ruin
your appetite.'�) As if, I would
leave a Puerto Rican bean on one
of her plates.
She continues her humming and
stirring. She sautés onions and
ads spices as she promotes her
talent to the entire block. The
kitchen window is open. The
aroma is captivating and I hear
Raymond's whistle, 'hey man, is
your moms cooking today?'�
'Willie isn't here.'� I say.
'Mom'�, I look at her, she grins,
and her eyes light up.
'Si hijo, dirle que si.'�
('Yes son, tell him yes.'�)
She is five foot tall and all
heart. Nobody goes hungry. She
is an artist and like Jesus, she
knows how to cut bread. Raymond
brings Tito and Mom gives him a
long look and says, 'donde comen
seis comen siete.'� (Where six
eat, seven can eat or there is
always room for one more.'�)
So three six footers sit, bow
our heads, pray, and eat on a
Sunday afternoon in
my mother's kitchen.
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What a great mother! I too feed extra if they have not eaten. What is one more if there's usually enough to create leftovers for the next day?
She is five foot tall and all
heart. Nobody goes hungry. She
is an artist and like Jesus, she
knows how to cut bread. Raymond
I feel really good reading this poem and much reminds me of myself, and a very strong believer in Jesus. Great reading. Don't take out the translation, I wouldn't have enjoyed it as much because what I don't know I don't understand. Americans aren't usually taught a second language. |
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Oye, tengo hambre ahora....que rico!
I would leave out the translations. just leave the spanish parts in spanish...people will figure it out.
YUMMY comfort food in a comfort environment. God bless all Spanish mothers is the kitchen. |
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Nice piece, my favorite is;
She is five foot tall and all
heart. Nobody goes hungry. She
is an artist and like Jesus, she
knows how to cut bread. Raymond . . .
The language here paints the contrasting description of the narrator in the poem's introduction "Hillbilly music in a/language that I refuse to speak,/
well done. The only nitpicking I would do in suggest that the poem end at "Sunday afternoon. I have a thing about repeating the title as the last line. |
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Hector-
You have a way that brings tears to my eyes. I knew you were just over flowing with talent the first time i read you. I am SO glad to read here in the forum that you have submitted your work and become published. And your ezine? Wow, its awesome, congrats!! Next up, is gettin' paid for all your words. I wish you the utmost success!!
much admiration
julie |
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This touched me.
My mother was merely an OK cook. She would rather be outside in the fresh air building, caring for the animals and wild things. She loved trees.
Your poem is full of the good, rich things in life. The joy found in a kitchen. Sitting with my mother was always cigarettes and coffee, but she was full of life and love. We ate wild meat with every meal, deer and elk. You don't have to be a good cook to make these things taste good and to be nourishing.
Your in-line translations were interesting, but caused me to hiccup. I didn't know if you intend both to sit end-to-end in a published poem. I read them carefully and decided that they did not hurt the meter.
I would love to learn Spanish, but there is little Spanish in Montana. I once got stoned with a Spanish girl up in Kodiak, and for several lessons thought that the root of all of the important Spanish words (son, soul, brother, friend ...) was God. |
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