I read your poems about your father and there's sadness but other recurring words and themes. Gentle. Love. Quiet. Never missed a basketball game.
How tragic that TB and war stole both his parents. I imagine you were aware of loving the small lonely child that lived within him along with the adult.
My father lost all his' fathers.' The several soldiers our beloved naughty nan married and lost to war, injuries, illness or just skipped out on. A comely bosom bedecked in medals on the annual ANZAC day,
I think he never knew how to love, not having felt parental care. Only survival.
Children arrive so ill-equipped to recognize trauma. The kids searching their father's face for answers and the six year old still searching for his parents remain bewildered. Now add the expectations of the season to arrive at bewildered disappointment. Thanks for this poem.
I'm not sure why, but reading this poem brought Eric Burdon's song "When I Was Young" to mind". I can only imagine what it would have like to not have our Dad around on Christmas, as a kid. We've had over 50 Christmas's since he died, I know that pain.
Oh, Sherman. The world would be such a more peaceful place if people understood like you do that the important thing in our individual lives is to face our pain and transform it as best we can. I am so grateful for your sharing your gifts and strengths with us.
Ironically, I was taken back by what seemed, at first, an abrupt ending. I had expected more to follow and it took a beat to realize but maybe that's the point. Some stories aren't tied up in neat bows, and endings happen before we are ready.
Wishing you a new season of stories you alone can create out of the endings, Sherman. Thanks for giving us all the gift of your "gift."
This short poem says so much... heartbreaking how trauma can be passed on, even with the best efforts of trying to create a different narrative. It is my daily struggle as a mother. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for speaking about the pain with such raw honesty. And thank you for creating beauty from this pain. What a gift your poems are! May you have a peaceful Christmas.
The sorrow of war took a toll on your lost father and your family and so many fathers and mothers and children throughout history. To this day. What comes to mind is the daily drinking of my grandfather who served as a doctor in World War I in France and died in the spring of the year World War II ended. This poem honors the experience of all those affected by war and the alcoholism that often accompanies that experience. Thank you, Sherman.
Yeah, my siblings were raised by a war orphan. The bullet that killed our paternal grandfather also critically wounded our father and seriously wounded us kids.
So amazingly powerful that i feel it in my chest!
Impressive how you can put so much in just these few lines. The tragedy of generational pain, the understanding of another human.
Thank you for sharing your poems, Mr Alexie. I hope they help you find what's lost.
Ouch
I haven't read poetry in a long time, but your work always moves me. Thank you for sharing your gift with the world.
I read your poems about your father and there's sadness but other recurring words and themes. Gentle. Love. Quiet. Never missed a basketball game.
How tragic that TB and war stole both his parents. I imagine you were aware of loving the small lonely child that lived within him along with the adult.
My father lost all his' fathers.' The several soldiers our beloved naughty nan married and lost to war, injuries, illness or just skipped out on. A comely bosom bedecked in medals on the annual ANZAC day,
I think he never knew how to love, not having felt parental care. Only survival.
Yes, he only knew survival. A great way to describe it.
So many of us searching for the fathers. And somehow believing that their absence makes us unworthy
Yes, it's painful and sometimes debilitating.
Children arrive so ill-equipped to recognize trauma. The kids searching their father's face for answers and the six year old still searching for his parents remain bewildered. Now add the expectations of the season to arrive at bewildered disappointment. Thanks for this poem.
Thanks, Francie.
I'm not sure why, but reading this poem brought Eric Burdon's song "When I Was Young" to mind". I can only imagine what it would have like to not have our Dad around on Christmas, as a kid. We've had over 50 Christmas's since he died, I know that pain.
Oh, Sherman. The world would be such a more peaceful place if people understood like you do that the important thing in our individual lives is to face our pain and transform it as best we can. I am so grateful for your sharing your gifts and strengths with us.
Ironically, I was taken back by what seemed, at first, an abrupt ending. I had expected more to follow and it took a beat to realize but maybe that's the point. Some stories aren't tied up in neat bows, and endings happen before we are ready.
Wishing you a new season of stories you alone can create out of the endings, Sherman. Thanks for giving us all the gift of your "gift."
This short poem says so much... heartbreaking how trauma can be passed on, even with the best efforts of trying to create a different narrative. It is my daily struggle as a mother. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for speaking about the pain with such raw honesty. And thank you for creating beauty from this pain. What a gift your poems are! May you have a peaceful Christmas.
That is a long and often fruitless search.
The sorrow of war took a toll on your lost father and your family and so many fathers and mothers and children throughout history. To this day. What comes to mind is the daily drinking of my grandfather who served as a doctor in World War I in France and died in the spring of the year World War II ended. This poem honors the experience of all those affected by war and the alcoholism that often accompanies that experience. Thank you, Sherman.
Yeah, my siblings were raised by a war orphan. The bullet that killed our paternal grandfather also critically wounded our father and seriously wounded us kids.
A measured perspective, and truly said. 🤙🏼
Thank you, Terrell.
Wow. Good poem. Multigenerational trauma. So widespread, and it just goes on and on.
Thank yoi, Shelah.
Hugs for the hard stuff, present and past.
Thank you.
The long dark winter of Christmas and yes, its a wonderful time but still we mourn the lost of those we love
Yea, we miss them. And Merry Christmas to you and your new love!
Thanks Sherman, life is good these days.