This is a world that is foreign to me in every sense and direction. But reading what you write, helps me to see your world, to see your perspective, and slowly build a beginning of understanding of all the things and events and human stories in the world that are not like the things and events and human stories I am familiar with.
When you write about your dad, I see all the dads of my youth. Friends dads, relatives dads, neighbors dads. One we found lying in the gutter one morning before dawn, almost hit by a car parking. Drunk dads, hiding from their childhoods, their dark skin, their lifelong ugly treatment. I see all the dads except mine, who I never saw. When I found him he had already died, but I heard he was a good dad to his other children. When you write about your dad, I think, yes, he was an alcoholic but he was yours.
I snorted at the end. A real graceless, throaty, unladylike snort. And then my heart remembered my own grief and loss and how hard it is to rally when the engine just won't turn over.
That peoples, & certain ones come instantly to mind, must dance their pain for release & others entertainment on survival's path is macabre & enraging. Been reading shorts by Samantha Schweblin & "The Heavy Suitcase of Benavides" seems to me to resonate on this same topic. (I sometimes balk at the injunction that as a writer I must dig out & expose such deep inner . . . "ugliness". . . self-flagulate to "succeed" with the art form as well as possibly within a larger industry . . . Repulsive. But often find that just by my nature, I'm doing it anyway . . . somewhat bewildering.)
The best poetry is not written on command. It is a piece of your heart ripped and torn from its roots. It hurts to write it and it hurts to receive it. Thank you for sharing your love and your pain.
Nope. I’m hugging you and carrying you to my car. I don’t know why the world has to be full of so much hurt and sadness, but maybe the highway will tell us.
I am clapping for the boy who learned to stare right through all the waste and keep looking and writing it and making being political in America personal and real.
And Indian humor is the best. I lived at the edge of a reservation for quite awhile and that is something I miss.
I am in a political art show right now and am very proud of that. It's in New York so I can't see it but I am pretty sure there is plenty of real there too. It's our job in good ole god damn America.
Having read along while listening to the audio, I have nothing, nothing to contribute - but I can't not respond. I am sitting in the silence of the wake of this poem. The opposite of laughing and clapping, I'm appreciative and sorrowful. Thank you for this, Sherman.
This is a world that is foreign to me in every sense and direction. But reading what you write, helps me to see your world, to see your perspective, and slowly build a beginning of understanding of all the things and events and human stories in the world that are not like the things and events and human stories I am familiar with.
Thank you.
I'm clapping. For that.
When you write about your dad, I see all the dads of my youth. Friends dads, relatives dads, neighbors dads. One we found lying in the gutter one morning before dawn, almost hit by a car parking. Drunk dads, hiding from their childhoods, their dark skin, their lifelong ugly treatment. I see all the dads except mine, who I never saw. When I found him he had already died, but I heard he was a good dad to his other children. When you write about your dad, I think, yes, he was an alcoholic but he was yours.
Yes, he was mine. He was ours. And I am grateful.
I snorted at the end. A real graceless, throaty, unladylike snort. And then my heart remembered my own grief and loss and how hard it is to rally when the engine just won't turn over.
I hope you don't mind, Sherman, but your poem inspired me to write some thoughts about death, and I've included a link to your poem: https://terryfreedman.substack.com/p/ulysses-by-james-joyce?sd=pf
I'm not quite ready to write about my own father's death, or my father-in-law's, but your bravery has moved me a step closer to that I think.
That peoples, & certain ones come instantly to mind, must dance their pain for release & others entertainment on survival's path is macabre & enraging. Been reading shorts by Samantha Schweblin & "The Heavy Suitcase of Benavides" seems to me to resonate on this same topic. (I sometimes balk at the injunction that as a writer I must dig out & expose such deep inner . . . "ugliness". . . self-flagulate to "succeed" with the art form as well as possibly within a larger industry . . . Repulsive. But often find that just by my nature, I'm doing it anyway . . . somewhat bewildering.)
Your poems about fathers always baptize me in my own shit. Would I be a better father if I wasn’t Bobby’s son?
Yeah, that is the damn question, right?
I have always struggled being vulnerable. But I am learning from you. As always, thank you. And there was no clapping, just some tears.
A very political poem indeed. Thank you.
Thank you, Barbara.
The best poetry is not written on command. It is a piece of your heart ripped and torn from its roots. It hurts to write it and it hurts to receive it. Thank you for sharing your love and your pain.
Thank you, Annie.
Nope. I’m hugging you and carrying you to my car. I don’t know why the world has to be full of so much hurt and sadness, but maybe the highway will tell us.
I am clapping for the boy who learned to stare right through all the waste and keep looking and writing it and making being political in America personal and real.
And Indian humor is the best. I lived at the edge of a reservation for quite awhile and that is something I miss.
I am in a political art show right now and am very proud of that. It's in New York so I can't see it but I am pretty sure there is plenty of real there too. It's our job in good ole god damn America.
Thank you for sharing.
Thank you.
Having read along while listening to the audio, I have nothing, nothing to contribute - but I can't not respond. I am sitting in the silence of the wake of this poem. The opposite of laughing and clapping, I'm appreciative and sorrowful. Thank you for this, Sherman.
Thank you, Cindy.
So moving, so powerful. It very much reminds me of a Jewish proverb:
When a father helps a son, both laugh.
When a son helps a father, both cry.
Damn, Terry, that proverb wrecked me. Damn.
Hi Sherman. Sorry! I am glad it's not just me then: I can never actually say that proverb because it just chokes me up.
It's a perfect distillation of the love and pain.
Dang. Thanks for sharing that proverb.
Damn. Just damn.
Thank you, Freddy.
Tragic.
Yes, it was and is.