So hard to "like" a poem like this one, or Mohr's essay on his father, but yes. Last night at our table during the monthly meeting of the Clearwater Fly Casters a lady who'd just turned 70 talked of how different that felt to her from when she turned 60. Then she said she didn't like the Lewiston Tribune because "there are so many obituaries in it." Of course, Georgia & I had to mention how it felt to have turned 80--quite "different" indeed--wasn't 70 just "advanced middle age"? Ahh, the obituaries!
This is so moving, Sherman. For some reason it reminded me of a couple of things concerning Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, who brought Transcendental Meditation to the west. He always said that when someone dies, they haven't gone, they're just a little way ahead on the other side of a bridge, where you can't see them. But when he was shown a film clip of his guru, he played it over and over again, all the while saying "There you are". I take great solace from this.
I was also reminded of a Jewish proverb that I've mentioned before: When a father helps his son, both laugh; when a son helps his father, both cry.
So beautiful. You are so fortunate not to have been estranged from your father . . . I hate to think of you, basketball playing/loving Sherman, with a bad back . . . are you still able to play at BHS?
Sherman,
This is a great poem.
It stuns me with its depth.
Emerson describes in The Poet
how it feels to be near
a real poet
as he writes.
From the BlueWolves to Sherman and Michael
Terminal
Trading her bright skirts
and fancy shawl
for a thin, no-back, hospital gown
was hard enough
but to feel her full black braids
thin to balding--
broke her heart.
Feeble fingers tugged at mine,
"Promise you won't let me suffer."
She accepted my lie easily, knowing
that this trail
through these mountains--
is all about pain.
This enemy
doesn't bugle its charge to finish us.
It grows unseen,
a tiny flowering throb
that blooms into unbearable.
She presses the button
to pump that angel of relief
into her flattened vein.
All my poems of peace and passing
can not salve the fester of these hours.
We hold hands, sing for release,
balance our grief on a teetering faith
and wait for suffering's end.
Today, at sunrise, she welcomed peace.
Her face smoothed at the change of worlds.
I stayed behind, feeling the weight,
but stars did not wink out
nor birds forget their song.
I’m so sorry about your father, Michael.
So beautiful, Sherman.
And maybe you have a bad back.
And maybe you are not as strong anymore.
And maybe so many years have past.
But these words carry your father
and the memory of him
to a place where he shines.
I wish that in a far away future, decades after my death, my children can carry me still in that way.
I enjoy hearing you speak your work. Your voice lends much to the evocative power of your words.
Damn. Life being lifey . . .
Gorgeous poem: vulnerable, honest, bare. You cast me back to "Those Winter Sundays"
Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
—Robert Hayden
So hard to "like" a poem like this one, or Mohr's essay on his father, but yes. Last night at our table during the monthly meeting of the Clearwater Fly Casters a lady who'd just turned 70 talked of how different that felt to her from when she turned 60. Then she said she didn't like the Lewiston Tribune because "there are so many obituaries in it." Of course, Georgia & I had to mention how it felt to have turned 80--quite "different" indeed--wasn't 70 just "advanced middle age"? Ahh, the obituaries!
Beautiful poem, really touching.
Beautiful. Thanks so much for sharing. I know beings of light who left on a passing wind.
"What happened to the part of you who noticed every changing wind? " Jason Isbell, 24 Frames
https://youtu.be/0_bItCISCSY
Beautiful and beautifully read. Thank you.
Happy Thursday, for reals!
This is so moving, Sherman. For some reason it reminded me of a couple of things concerning Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, who brought Transcendental Meditation to the west. He always said that when someone dies, they haven't gone, they're just a little way ahead on the other side of a bridge, where you can't see them. But when he was shown a film clip of his guru, he played it over and over again, all the while saying "There you are". I take great solace from this.
I was also reminded of a Jewish proverb that I've mentioned before: When a father helps his son, both laugh; when a son helps his father, both cry.
Very moved by this, beyond words
Knock it off, Sherman. Planet Fitness is only $10/month. I think I was there yesterday. Trying to get my son to join. Myself, I'm on a beer regimen.
💔
So beautiful. You are so fortunate not to have been estranged from your father . . . I hate to think of you, basketball playing/loving Sherman, with a bad back . . . are you still able to play at BHS?