The Importance of Motherhood
A mother is a source of security and tranquility; she is the architect of generations. Her presence is fundamental in the lives of her children, and no community can thrive without her. She is the school from which vibrant and generous individuals emerge. In this article, I will share some beautiful poems dedicated to mothers.
Beautiful Poems About Mothers
Poets have composed numerous exquisite verses to express their feelings toward their mothers. Here are some of the most beautiful poems celebrating motherhood:
Five Messages to My Mother
By Nizar Qabbani
Good morning, my beautiful one…
Good morning, my sweet sanctuary…
It has been two years, my mother,
Since the boy who set sail,
Embarking on his mythical journey,
Carrying within his bags,
The green mornings of his homeland,
Its stars and rivers, and all its reds.
He tucked in his clothes
Snatches of mint and thyme,
And a Damascene violet…
Here I am alone…
The smoke of my cigarettes grows tiresome,
And my seat grows weary of me.
My sorrows are like little birds…
Still searching for a threshing floor.
I have seen the women of Europe…
Felt the emotions of cement and wood,
I have witnessed the civilization of toil…
I have roamed India, sailed through Sindh,
I traveled the yellow world,
Yet could not find…
A woman to brush my golden hair,
One who would bring me sugar dolls,
To dress me when I’m bare,
And lift me from my falls…
Oh my mother…
Oh my mother…
I am the boy who set sail,
And her sugar doll still lives in his heart.
So how, how my mother,
Did I become a father…
Without having grown?
Good morning from Madrid,
How is the jasmine?
I send you my regards, O mother…
To that girl, the little girl,
For she was the favorite of my father…
He used to pamper her as his child,
Inviting her to a cup of coffee,
Feeding her, quenching her thirst,
And surrounding her with compassion…
… But my father has died,
And she still dreams of his return,
Searching for him in every corner of his room,
Inquiring about his cloak…
Asking for his newspaper…
And when summer arrives,
She asks about the blue of his eyes…
To sprinkle gold coins upon his hands…
Farewell…
Farewell…
To the home that showered us with love and mercy,
To your white flowers… Joy of the Star Square,
To my bed…
To my books…
To the children of our neighborhood…
And to the walls filled with the chaos of our writings…
To the lazy cats,
Sleeping on our dawns,
And to the climbing violet,
On the windows of our neighbor…
Two years have passed, O my mother,
And the face of Damascus,
It is a bird scratching within us,
Nibbling on our curtains…
And tenderly pecking at us…
It has been two years, my mother,
And the nights of Damascus,
The jasmine,
The houses of Damascus,
Live inside our thoughts…
Its minarets illuminate our vessels,
As if the minaret of the Omayyad has been planted within us,
As if the apple orchards,
Fragrance dwell within our consciences,
As if the light and the stones,
Came all along with us…
September has arrived, O mother,
And with it, sadness brings me its gifts,
Leaving at my window,
Its tears and woes…
September has come… Where is Damascus?
Where is my father and his eyes
And where is the silk of his gaze?
Where is the scent of his coffee?
May God bless his resting place…
Where is the spaciousness of our great home…
And where are its delights?
Where are the paths of the greats,
Laughing in its corners?
Where is my childhood there?
I used to drag my cat’s tail,
And feast upon its vines,
And pick from its violets…
Damascus, Damascus…
Oh poem,
Written on the cornea of our eyes,
Oh beautiful child…
From your hair we were nurtured
We knelt at your knee…
And melted in your love,
To the point that in our love we killed him…
A Mother’s Embrace
By Abu al-Qasim al-Shabi
A mother embraces her child gently,
She is a sanctuary of heavenly beauty, sacred.
Thoughts are sanctified in her presence,
And souls return pure there.
Is there a holier sanctuary than this?
Blessed be the sanctuary of motherhood and youth,
For in you, life is completed and sanctified.
Moral Values That Flourish
By Kadhim al-Rassafi
Moral values bloom like plants,
If watered with the essence of virtues.
They stand firm if nurtured by the educator,
Blossoming on the branches of virtue.
Elevating for goodness aligns,
Just as the channels of water flow align.
Revitalizing from the core of glory a spirit,
With blossoms that emanate sweet fragrances.
I have not seen the creations find a place,
To be refined like a mother’s embrace.
For a mother’s lap is a school that rises,
Through the upbringing of sons and daughters.
And the child’s morals are measured by the goodness,
Of the morals of nurturing women.
And a child of noble lineage is not equal,
To a child of lowly traits.
And a plant does not grow in gardens,
Like a plant that grows in the wilderness.
O nurturing girl’s bosom that welcomed souls,
You are the shelter of the finest emotions.
For when you embrace the child, it becomes a tablet,
Surpassing all others of existence.
Whenever the newborn rests against you,
The images of tenderness appear.
The morals of the boy reflect back clearest,
As reflections in a clear mirror.
And your heart’s beating teaches none other
Than the noble characteristics.
Thus your first lesson in refining traits,
Begins with you, O nurturing breast.
How do we expect goodness from our children,
If they grow up in the arms of the ignorant?
And is perfection hoped for children,
If they suckle from the breasts of the deficient?
What’s wrong with mothers who are unaware,
When they rear every reckless trait.
Gentle are they to the infants without wisdom,
Thus the tenderness of these mothers is lost.
O Mother of the Believers, to you we complain,
About our plight in the ignorance of many mothers.
This is a tragedy, O mother, leading us to,
“We nearly choke on the Euphrates’ water.”
We took customs as our faith after you,
So Muslims suffer with the female believers.
They have guided them down a path of despair,
Obstructing them from the paths of life.
To the point that they are trapped in the depths of their homes,
Reducing them to the status of tools.
They regard them weaker than a mosquito,
Without wings and lesser than a feather.
They claim Islamic law states,
The preference is “those above those.”
They say knowledge in Islam is something,
That weighs heavily on the minds of the affluent.
Thus, the ignorant believe they’re more chaste,
Than the learned who have embraced wisdom.
They have lied about Islam, a deceit,
Which the sun cannot overshadow.
Is not seeking knowledge a duty in Islam,
For its sons and its daughters?
And our mother in knowledge was an ocean,
Resolving issues for those who sought her wisdom.
She learned from the Prophet the highest knowledge,
And was one of the most renowned scholars.
That is why he said, “Return to her,
With two-thirds of your religion’s evidence.”
Knowledge was once a matter of imparting, then it became,
A matter of attending to teachers.
By observing massive books,
And with ink flowing from pots.
Have we not seen beautiful maidens,
And ladies who were writers and poets?
Women in the past would go,
To battle alongside the conquerors.
They would stand by them against the enemies,
Healing the painful wounds.
How many among them were captured and tasted,
The suffering of disgrace in the hands of the foes?
So what would it cost to look back,
At our ancestors with some respect?
For they walked along a path of guidance, while we have strayed,
With the philosophy of division and disarray.
We see the ignorance of girls as modesty,
As if ignorance was a fortress for the girl.
And we undervalue the wives without committing a crime,
Thus subjecting them to all kinds of harm.
We force them into the oppression of their homes,
Believing they are only meant to be burdens.
If they suffocated the daughters, then we’ve buried,
All our women before they died.
We restricted them from aspiring to greatness,
Thus living in ignorance leads to neglect.
Had the people’s nature not been kind,
Women would not have become veiled.
Men’s refinement is the ultimate necessity,
To make their women refined.
What does it matter for a chaste woman to unveil,
Among those who are noble and honorable.
I sacrifice myself for the creatures of the desert,
Even if we described them as rough.
How many beautiful maidens have stood stark,
With graceful virtuosity among ritual chairs?
How many antelopes and deer,
Crossed with ease, unburdened by shame?
Poetry in Mourning a Mother
I am worried about her; if she’s covered in the earth, or if stones can harm her.
Honor her with the shroud, O caretaker, for the home remained a cradle for her.
Honor her with the shroud; this is my mother,
And she was witness to all her gracious deeds.
This is the morning and the night remembering her,
This is the sky and its stars mourning her.
These tales cry like us for her, and the earth asks about the trace of her steps.
This noble one is greater than the world; she is the great one,
Glory be to Him who is beyond compare.
I weep for her day and night, neither a year goes by, nor a promise fulfilled.
I cry for her as much as she carried me, so sweetly,
And as much longing muddled in her joyful songs.
And there are many names and many who called her,
There are so many stars and so many who foster her.
I weep for her out of despair, O world; who do I have now after her?
Since the moment I opened my eyes, I hadn’t come across a sight of my child.
Was the soil not gentle in her face? Have you seen how her son responded to her?
If she were in my place, she wouldn’t have done what she did, but the dear one did.
O worms, see her fading next to her; I am her son present, and I’d sacrifice myself for her.
Take from my body what you wish, but the kind lady, do not approach her.
And I entrust you with a secret, tell her to forgive me,
And please, do not leave her until she feels my love.
I want her to forgive me like she always did; every flaw of mine may she overlook for her grace.
O God, may she dwell in eternal bliss, and may she have a home in the Gardens of Eden.
O void of this universe, lacking without her; O narrowness of this world, how cruel it has become!
O bitter flavor of losing her; I cannot believe I have lost and not found her!
How can I enter her room if she is not there? What is my excuse for her prayer rug and prayer mat?
What shall I say to her belongings, her Quran, if her comb and the fragrance of her presence are missing?
All within her room mourns for her; even the walls beg for her return.
Everyone cries for her; they have not forgotten her. O God, grant me patience; how can I forget her?
Oh, that she had never left and had allowed me to rest beside her in the grave.