Poem of the week: My Mother by Claude McKay

"My Mother Reg wished me to go with him to the field, I paused because I did not want to go; But in her quiet way she made me yield Reluctantly, for she was breathing low. Her hand she slowly lifted from her lap And, smiling sadly in the old sweet way, She pointed to the nail where hung my cap. Her eyes said: I shall last another day."

"The dawn departs, the morning is begun, The trades come whispering from off the seas, The fields of corn are golden in the sun, The dark-brown tassels fluttering in the breeze; The bell is sounding and the children pass, Frog-leaping, skipping, shouting, laughing shrill, Down the red road, over the pasture-grass, Up to the school-house crumbling on the hill. The older folk are at their peaceful toil, Some pulling up the weeds, some plucking corn, And others breaking up the sun-baked soil."

A son pauses when his mother asks him to go with her to the field, reluctantly yields after she points to the nail where his cap hangs and smiles sadly. A boy brings news of her death; the son listens listlessly, though she was the only one he loved. Morning brings trades from the seas, golden cornfields, children skipping to a crumbling school, and older folk at peaceful toil. A faintly scented breeze moves over the earth where his mother lies asleep. A Jamaican-born man won a 1907 trade scholarship, an earthquake demolished the school, he returned to Sunny Ville, and his mother died less than six months later. He was one of eleven children, eight survival; his mother supported his artistic and intellectual ambitions.

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