poem%20my%20mother%20that%20feast%20of%20light - As you sit...

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My Mother, That Feast of Light My mother, that feast of light, has always sat down, Composed herself, and written poetry, hardly Reworking any, just the way she used to Tell us that Chinese painters painted; first they Sat for days on the hillside watching the rabbits, Then they went home, they set out ink and paper, Meditated; and only then picked up their brushes To catch the lift of a rabbit in mid-hop. “If it didn’t come out I would throw it away.” Oh, she Is still a bird that fills a bush with singing. The way that she lifts her tea cup, the look she gives you
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Unformatted text preview: As you sit across from her, it is all a kind Of essential music. I also remember my father Alone at the dining-room table, the ink bottle safe In a bowl, his orange-red fountain pen in his big Hand. The hand moved slowly back and forth And the floor below was white with sheets of paper Each carrying a rejected phrase or two As he struggled all morning to finish just one sentence Like a smith hammering thick and glowing iron, Like Jacob wrestling with the wonderful angel....
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This note was uploaded on 04/18/2008 for the course ENC 1102 taught by Professor Bailey during the Spring '08 term at Seminole CC.

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