To My Mother
Most near, most dear, most loved and most far,
Under the window where I found her
Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter,
Gin and chicken, helpless in her Irish hand,
Irresistible as Rabelais, but most tender for
The lame dogs and hurt birds that sorround her,---
She is a procession no one can follow after...
But lean on a mahogany mountain like a table
Whom only faith can move, and so I send
O all my faith, and all my love to tell her
That she will move from mourning to morning.
Born in Essex, England. His poems were described as
lyrical and quite personal. He won Poetry magazine's
Levinson Prize in 1966.