Your Mother the Artist by Sofia Miah

Your Mother the Artist by Sofia Miah


(Undergraduate studying for Bachelor of Medicine Bachelor of Surgery)


This short, intimate poem is about celebrating mothers and expressing gratitude to the very women responsible for raising us to grow into the beautiful individuals that we are today. Using the metaphor of the mother as an artist, I described the individual being spoken to in the poem as a masterpiece handcrafted from meticulous care and love. In doing so, the mother is elevated to a godly pedestal where she has the ultimate power of human creation bestowed onto her as she sculpts people out of clay. This could draw parallels to some rumoured versions of the story of Adam and Eve where they are supposedly created out of clay. Furthermore, the tone and diction used in this poem was specifically chosen with the intention of creating a piece that could be read either as a love poem or an ode to mothers. Choosing which interpretation to believe in is entirely up to the reader. I wrote this poem for my own mother who has sacrificed everything in her world for me; I owe it to her. 



Your Mother the Artist


If your mother was an artist and you were an art piece,

She would craft her own paper to plan you out on,

Carefully washing

And flattening out the sheets with the weight of her love;

Hanging them up to dry

And filter through the sunshine brought into her life.


She would put on her best sandals and walk miles to the nearest market,

Picking out pastel paint the colors of your eyes

Which remind her of sweet tasting honey;

And choosing the finest brush to etch out the delicate contours of your nose

And the hollow arches of your collarbones.


In the morning, she would sit outside to let the clay dry,

Molding the wet, flesh-colored sludge into your luxurious curves,

Smoothing out a dip for your lower back.

She would drape the wrinkly skin over your knees and elbows,

Carving out the well-defined arch of your subtle jawline,  

And forgetting to water down the parched skin

At the nape of your neck that you always forget to moisturize.


When the stars come out, she would look up,

Wishing she could somehow honor their magnificence in

You, her masterpiece.

And then, she conceives the idea of your freckles;

Splashing speckles of dark melanin  

All over the flattest surface of the sculpture that is you,

Your back, and decides to arrange them into constellations

That she imagines you and someone you love will gaze at together one day.


She would hope that others see the beauty that the artist in her sees in you,

A public display dedicated to celebrating all that is happy in her world,

Stubbornly despising anyone of a different opinion,

Any critics of the work she meticulously labored to create;

Hoping that out of all possible interpretations,

Others would come across one that epitomized

The compassion, the gentleness, the intelligence,

She wanted to encapsulate when she made you

Ever so cautiously with hesitant hands and nurturing fingers.


If your mother was an artist and you were an art piece,

I would come to her exhibition and look at you. 


Reproduced by kind permission of Sofia Miah
Copyright ©Sofia Miah