A few years before my dad died (age 96, 2020), I showed him a photo of himself next to his tank in the 4th Armored Division, World War II. I asked if he recognized the person in the picture. "Is that you?" he said. (He'd had cataract surgery, but still.) But we do look very much alike,and as I age, I look more like him. So much so that when I pass a mirror, I sometimes think it is his ghost.
Even if our fathers don't name us after them, their ghosts remain with many of us in the mirror. How many people end up ghostless? I think about adopted kids who never see their birth parents in the mirror or know who they even are.
As I get older I feel the presence of ghosts all around me. I see the past when I look at the present and it makes it harder to imagine the future.
Thanks for this poem! I feel it so much. I feel I'm projecting my own life onto yours, but your words pull a lot of deep emotions out of me.
This poem shakes me to my core, and I'm not sure why. I have to sit with this one. Thank you, Sherman, you are no junior, you are Sherman the Great (poet, writer, storyteller, and more)
Whew! How many poems about your dad have you written? This one is arresting and loving and forgiving and nearly settled. Thank you for sharing another slice of your life.
Maybe it is because I have loved Waylon and Haggard from the first time I heard them, maybe it is because I too have my father's name, or maybe it is just how you deal with ghosts, those dead and those living. I'm guessing that I was born about the same time as your father.
Whatever it is, this poem really moved me. For all the saddness involved there also seems to be something joyful about you being such a good host.
I just read this and Two Wings by Chloe Hope and though my reality may change I am always only in the one I know. The oldest of my three little brothers died the agonizingly slow death of addiction. He has my father's name. I do not believe that even his many siblings understood him.
My big sister died in a house fire that was started because of a drunken accident. And she didn't wake up to escape because she was completely passed out because of booze. I hear you, Chris.
Beautifully done. The easy modern (vaguely post Freudian) reading is to want to escape, but you make it clear, well as clear as such things can be, that much more is at stake . . . the home, wife and son was brilliant, as was the play on guest/ghost. (FWIW, we didn't name our sons after me; they have enough weight.) One of the real strengths of poetry, and yours in particular, is it compresses multiple, often contradictory, meanings into tight spaces, and so resonates, hums, like life. As a commenter said, your father is good for your poetry. Kudos and I hope for more.
A few years before my dad died (age 96, 2020), I showed him a photo of himself next to his tank in the 4th Armored Division, World War II. I asked if he recognized the person in the picture. "Is that you?" he said. (He'd had cataract surgery, but still.) But we do look very much alike,and as I age, I look more like him. So much so that when I pass a mirror, I sometimes think it is his ghost.
Whoa, looking like your father's war photo is intense.
Even if our fathers don't name us after them, their ghosts remain with many of us in the mirror. How many people end up ghostless? I think about adopted kids who never see their birth parents in the mirror or know who they even are.
As I get older I feel the presence of ghosts all around me. I see the past when I look at the present and it makes it harder to imagine the future.
Thanks for this poem! I feel it so much. I feel I'm projecting my own life onto yours, but your words pull a lot of deep emotions out of me.
My mother shows up in everything. Especially the mirror.
Yup and yup!
My mother saw her mother in the mirror. My mom looked away and when she looked back, her mother was gone. Now, I wait to see my mom in the mirror.
More and more, every year.
WOW! That last line really gave me pause.
Still paused.
Thank you, Frankie.
This poem shakes me to my core, and I'm not sure why. I have to sit with this one. Thank you, Sherman, you are no junior, you are Sherman the Great (poet, writer, storyteller, and more)
Thanks, Sandra.
Sherman: This poem unwinds so gently and sadly and beautifully. And so true — we haunt our ancestors as much as they haunt us.
Thank you, David.
Whew! How many poems about your dad have you written? This one is arresting and loving and forgiving and nearly settled. Thank you for sharing another slice of your life.
I've written at least a hundred poems about my father. And I'll likely write a hundred more. Thanks, Suzan.
About? Or with?
This poem is getting printed out and kept. Thank you.
Maybe it is because I have loved Waylon and Haggard from the first time I heard them, maybe it is because I too have my father's name, or maybe it is just how you deal with ghosts, those dead and those living. I'm guessing that I was born about the same time as your father.
Whatever it is, this poem really moved me. For all the saddness involved there also seems to be something joyful about you being such a good host.
Thanks.
Thank you, David.
Reading this hit me with a wave of vertigo— fantastic piece of work. Thank you.
Thank you, Bill.
Well damn. There ya go.
Thanks, Sean.
I just read this and Two Wings by Chloe Hope and though my reality may change I am always only in the one I know. The oldest of my three little brothers died the agonizingly slow death of addiction. He has my father's name. I do not believe that even his many siblings understood him.
My big sister died in a house fire that was started because of a drunken accident. And she didn't wake up to escape because she was completely passed out because of booze. I hear you, Chris.
Beautifully done. The easy modern (vaguely post Freudian) reading is to want to escape, but you make it clear, well as clear as such things can be, that much more is at stake . . . the home, wife and son was brilliant, as was the play on guest/ghost. (FWIW, we didn't name our sons after me; they have enough weight.) One of the real strengths of poetry, and yours in particular, is it compresses multiple, often contradictory, meanings into tight spaces, and so resonates, hums, like life. As a commenter said, your father is good for your poetry. Kudos and I hope for more.
Thank you for the insightful read, David.
Sorry but your persistent dad is good for poetry. Thank you both for this one.
Thanks, Chris.
Keep exploring that escape room, and if you figure it out, send the rest of us your map! We won’t tell your father, promise!
Thanks, Alison. My compass is spinning! And gets me nowhere!
Must have bought mine from the same company then. Serious.
This is why I didn’t name my son Karl Straub, Junior. He’s a lot like me, anyway, as it turns out. Better looking, though.
I like your poem, Sherman, and I usually don’t like anyone’s poem.
Thank you, Karl. My sons are better looking than me.
That’s the dream of every sane father.
Powerful. I have a well worn copy of The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart I read often. This stands with the most haunting father poems in it.
Thanks!
Beautiful, had the decaf out for my gone dad last night. He didn't drink decaf, but I felt like he would like a cup, so I kept it out.
Lovely. Thanks, Tony.