Can someone give me the worlds of Sonnet for My Mother by George Barker? Or a website where I can find it Thanks to anyone who can help.. Sheila
looks like it's actually Sonnet To My Mother
pam
SONNET TO MY MOTHER
Most near, most dear, most loved, and most far,
Under the huge window where I often 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 surround her,—
She is a procession no one can follow after
But be like a little dog following a brass band.
She will not glance up at the bomber or condescend
To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar,
But lean on the mahogany table like a mountain
Whom only faith can move, and so I send
O all her faith and all my love to tell her
That she will move from mourning into morning.
—George Barker
Pam - You are right, of course. It is "to" rather than "for. Thank you very much. I just knew you would be the one to answer. How do you have such a wide knowledge of poetry?
It's not a wide knowledge of poetry, but of internet search engines. I went to www.google.com, and entered "Sonnet for my mother" in the 'find exact phrase' category. Luckily, Google ignores some common connector words, and turned up several Sonnets to/for my Mother. I then refined the search with 'George Barker.'
Here for your enjoyment is another "Sonnet to Mom" written by Edgar Allan Poe. (Guess they couldn't just go out and buy Mother's Day presents back then!)
pam
SONNET TO MY MOTHER
Because the angels in the Heavens above,
Devoutly singing unto one another,
Can find, amid their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "mother,"
Therefore by that sweet name I long have called you;
You who are more than mother unto me,
Filling my heart of hearts, where God installed you,
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother — my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the dead I loved so dearly,
And thus are precious than the one I knew,
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
E. A. Poe
Here are three more search engines of note:
[www.wisenut.com] />
[www.teoma.com] />
[vivisimo.com] />
The advanced search feature on vivisimo looks interesting.
Edgar, wrote a sonnet for his mother. He's definetly going to spoil his image.
Les
Yeah, but his mother was dead, so it was still creepy.
pam
"My mother — my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the dead I loved so dearly,
And thus are precious than the one I knew, "
You've got a point there, Pam.
Les
Since it's Edgar we're talking about, it's probably the point on a wooden stake.
pam