Easter’s Dues

[ilovewomenandbeer]

Easter’s Dues

Easter dew,
Trailer rusted, fogged.

Worn hot irons—
mother’s calloused hands.

Stained spiraled shells,
cheap cracked carton.

Scrambled—
soulful warming yellow.

Starving suppers.

Mother's Sunday love—
our babies alike.

Soft stinky fingers,
richer—
we still find gratitude.

[dukealien]

Easter’s Dues

Easter dew,
Trailer rusted, fogged.

Worn hot irons—  couldn't decide if these were flatirons (for clothes) or curling irons... either works
mother’s calloused hands.

Stained spiraled shells,
cheap cracked carton.  delightful alliterations in these lines... I saw pasta shells, then eggs.

Scrambled—
soulful warming yellow.   

Starving suppers.   Yes, no side meat.

Mother's Sunday love—
our babies alike.  Interesting line

Soft stinky fingers,
richer—
we still find gratitude.

On second reading, I assembled this into eating the Easter eggs.  No basket, no rabbit, no foil-wrapped chocolate.

This is very good, the atmosphere effectively established with no description as such.  Just characterizing things.

I haven't decoded "our babies alike."  In church, comparing kids?  Thinking of Mary at the cross, both in heaven?  Mother's and older daughter's children of an age?

Looking again, were the "hot irons" hot plates, i.e. single-element electric cooker?

This is the kind of poem that takes a lot from what the reader brings.  I have no real suggestions, only my reactions... which may help improve it by reinforcing or, more likely, by guiding away from unintended interpretations.

Thank you for posting - very evocative.

[ilovewomenandbeer]

Easter’s Dues

Easter dew,
Trailer rusted, fogged.

Worn hot irons—  couldn't decide if these were flatirons (for clothes) or curling irons... either works
mother’s calloused hands.

Stained spiraled shells,
cheap cracked carton.  delightful alliterations in these lines... I saw pasta shells, then eggs.

Scrambled—
soulful warming yellow.   

Starving suppers.   Yes, no side meat.

Mother's Sunday love—
our babies alike.  Interesting line

Soft stinky fingers,
richer—
we still find gratitude.

On second reading, I assembled this into eating the Easter eggs.  No basket, no rabbit, no foil-wrapped chocolate.

This is very good, the atmosphere effectively established with no description as such.  Just characterizing things.

I haven't decoded "our babies alike."  In church, comparing kids?  Thinking of Mary at the cross, both in heaven?  Mother's and older daughter's children of an age?

Looking again, were the "hot irons" hot plates, i.e. single-element electric cooker?

This is the kind of poem that takes a lot from what the reader brings.  I have no real suggestions, only my reactions... which may help improve it by reinforcing or, more likely, by guiding away from unintended interpretations.

Thank you for posting - very evocative.

In advance, I apologize for the poor formatting if there is any as I am writing from my phone.


Thanks for the thoughtful read. Just to clarify, the “worn hot irons” were meant to be the stove top burners, not clothing or curling irons. I was thinking about the pan heating the eggs and tying that to “mother’s calloused hands” from cooking and working.

The poem is really about looking back on a poor Easter morning meal and understanding it differently now. Lines like “stained spiraled shells / cheap cracked carton” and “scrambled— / soulful warming yellow” are just building that simple scene of eggs being made.

“Starving suppers” hints that meals were often small, so even something simple like eggs meant a lot. “Mother’s Sunday love— / our babies alike” is meant to show how a mother still sees her kids as her babies.

By the end, “Soft stinky fingers, / richer— / we still find gratitude” is that realization that the speaker and their kids included, probably didn’t think much about it, but looking back now it feels richer because we understand the love behind it.

Your insight also made me realize that the poem might have worked even better if it wasn’t tied so closely to Easter. The holiday part really just comes from a specific memory I had as a kid where I was disappointed that the cooked eggs themselves weren’t colorful too.

[Magpie]

Easter’s Dues

Easter dew,
Trailer rusted, fogged.

Worn hot irons—
mother’s calloused hands.

Stained spiraled shells,
cheap cracked carton.

Scrambled—
soulful warming yellow.

Starving suppers.

Mother's Sunday love—
our babies alike.

Soft stinky fingers,
richer—
we still find gratitude.

Hi, you've got a nice image driven poem here. The individual 'ku' type poems tie together well letting the reader do the work that is needed. I thought that from the title there would be a religious aspect and was therefore trying to connect certain images in that way. 

I also didn't get 'our babies alike' so this may be something that you could address to make clearer. I got 'stained spiraled shells' as eggs that had been painted.

I don't think you necessarily have to change the Easter aspect as it leaves the possibility of some ambiguity. Some people may want to see a connection and if your fine with this then it may be a good thing.

Cheers for the read.