I just want ur honest critique about this poem, it won’t blow u away or anything, but please just give me your opinion.
She offered me her hands
They were a worker’s hands
Calloused and bruised
Raw with the toll of work and age
The hands of poverty
My mother offered me her hands
Are you ashamed of these hands?’
These hands of a poor woman
These hands of a worker
A strawberry picker
A field worker
These hands of a poor woman
These hands that bathed you
Comforted you in times of trouble
Are you ashamed of these my Daughter.?
And I broke into tears
I had denied those hands
I had wished that those hands were not he hands
The hands that had clapped for me
Cared for me
I took those hands
Bathed them in wine
Cleansed the sores
I took those hands and
Washed them with my tears
Forgive me mother
And she offered me Her hands,
Her arms, those tiered arms
Perdoname, Madre, Perdoname.
Reading this poem has been one of the most moving experiences I have had in a long while. It literally has brought tears to my eyes. My home town (New York) just happens to be populated mostly by immigrants and the children of immigrants, so I see what you have written about every day, and it brings me back to my roots. All four of my grandparents were immigrants. They left the lands of their births, their languages, their culture and traditions so that their children and their grandchildren could have better lives. To me, they were more courageous than the men who left the planet to go to the moon, because they could never return for fear of their lives. They had much better lives here, but still, something was lost. Every day I see Korean men who sell fruits and vegetables. I meet Egyptians and Pakistanis who drive cabs. Many of them are college graduates, doctors even. They have put their lives on hold, so that their children may become doctors and lawyers and scientists and whatever they can become. But in this city of people from all over the wall, none tear at my heart as much as the Mexicans. They do not often have good educations. They sometimes work as much as 80 hours a week for $200.00 a week plus some free meals. They often live 10 or 12 in a small apartment, and the rent that they pay gives them the right to a mattress for only 8 hours a day. And yet they send home enough money to support families of 10 or 12 people. They are the most exploited group in this city. Yet they are among the sweetest, most cordial people I have ever met. These are your people, these are your mother’s people. You need never be ashamed of their lack of wealth or the humble jobs they must do. When I first learned Spanish, I heard one professor say about another, ":El no tiene educacion.": She wasn’t talking about college credits, she was saying that he didn’t not know how to behave decently to others. Seguro que tu madre tenga educacion. Y ella debe de tener mucho orgullo de tener tal buena hija. I love you for writing this. I hope you show this to her. It is a very special poem.
Using the hands to paint of picture of the love an the care, instead of a name, or a person or whatever, you used, ":these hands": very creative, gives it a really good feel, a beatiful message too.
its beautiful..well done
i recognize myself in your poem although my mom was home sick but my dad was the migrant worker…..
i can totally relate…my father was a avocado/lemon picker he came home every night boots caked in mud his hands rough and filthy…he never complained…I am sure that once or twice i was embarrassed when he took me to the swap meet on Sundays or to the grocery store when we were young..but he was a good man then a hardworking family man and he still is to this day. I love him immensely.
Thank you for sharing!
I think that was a very nice poem. Seeing the way she asked for forgiveness when she saw what she did was wrong. It makes one want to appreciate what they have.
i’ve read this poem before, i forgot what it was about…yes it was ok once you get the message.. i would guess something signifying her love
It’s really good =]