An idea I had seems to have taken root in other people’s minds and now I have to tend to the myriad bushes that have sprung.
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Poems For A Father’s Day
Posted on June 17, 2011
So far, I’ve managed to forget Father’s Day every single time. This year, I’ve been reminded a few times in the past week that Father’s Day is this weekend. Poems that I had read in the past year about fathers seemed an appropriate way to mark the day.
I read this poem in a collection that I don’t remember. But the poem immediately left its mark. I’ve often wondered about the casual indifference with which we treat our parents or at least, I treat mine. I often wonder of the things they’ve done to ensure that I had a good childhood. While my father wasn’t a blue collar worker and we didn’t live in cold places, his love for me was lonely in its own way. I can’t get over the phrase “of love’s austere and lonely offices”.
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in 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? – Those Winter Sundays, Robert Hayden
I’ve often been surprised by how much I imitate my father. The way I brush the hair off Maya’s face, the way I hug her, the way I read to her. Sometimes in a moment of the act, I find myself remembering my father and my action was a faint, distant echo of his. Even in the ways I’m different, its as if my action is the opposite of what he did. Not different, but the deliberate opposite. I wonder about the things that I mocked him about. I came across Edward’s Hirsch’s poem in the recently released collection of his life’s works, “The Living Fire“. Reading it, I was left wondering again how much I am my father’s son.
I used to mock my father and his chumsfor getting up early on Sunday morningand drinking coffee at a local spotbut now I’m one of those chumps.
No one cares about my old humiliationsbut they go on dragging through my sleeplike a string of empty tin cans rattlingbehind an abandoned car.
It’s like this: just when you thinkyou have forgotten that red-haired girlwho left you stranded in a parking lotforty years ago, you wake up
early enough to see her disappearingaround the corner of your dreamon someone else’s motorcycleroaring onto the highway at sunrise.
And so now I’m sitting in a dimly litcafé full of early morning riserswhere the windows are covered with sootand the coffee is warm and bitter. – Early Sunday Morning, Edward Hirsch
This last one is special for two reasons. It is a poem by my current favorite poet, W.S. Merwin. The other reason maybe clear from the poem itself. Many people say that after reading this poem, they’re moved to reconnect with their fathers. Bill Moyers, the respected journalist and public commentator had this to say after hearing Merwin read the poem: “I have missed my father often since his death in the 1990s. But I never missed him more so than when I heard you read that.” I think of my father, far away and alone and sometimes wonder about the choices I’ve made. The cost of those choices and who gets to pay them.
My friend says I was not a good son
you understand
I say yes I understandhe says I did not go
to see my parents very often you know
and I say yes I knoweven when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once
a month or maybe even less
I say oh yeshe says the last time I went to see my father
I say the last time I saw my fatherhe says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give meoh I say
feeling again the cold
of my father’s hand the last timehe says and my father turned
in the doorway and saw me
look at my wristwatch and he
said you know I would like you to stay
and talk with meoh yes I say
but if you are busy he said
I don’t want you to feel that you
have to
just because I’m hereI say nothing
he says my father
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing
somebody I don’t want to keep youI look out the window
my friend is older than I am
he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you knowthough there was nowhere I had to go
and nothing I had to do – Yesterday, W.S. Merwin
Sylvia Plath never really got over her father’s death. He died when she was just eight. In her most famous poem in which she speaks of how she tried killing herself over her never ending sorrow of his death, she writes:
Bit my pretty red heart in two.I was ten when they buried you.At twenty I tried to dieAnd get back, back, back to you.I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,And they stuck me together with glue.And then I knew what to do.I made a model of you,A man in black with a Meinkampf look – Daddy, Sylvia Plath
And finally, she curses him with one of the most quoted stanzas in poetry:
There’s a stake in your fat black heartAnd the villagers never liked you.They are dancing and stamping on you.They always knew it was you.Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through. – Daddy, Sylvia Plath
So, do I have any lighter poems to celebrate Father’s Day ? This poem, by Edgar Albert Guest, somehow makes me think that this is how Maya will remember me.
My father knows the proper wayThe nation should be run;He tells us children every dayJust what should now be done.He knows the way to fix the trusts,He has a simple plan;But if the furnace needs repairs,We have to hire a man.
My father, in a day or twoCould land big thieves in jail;There’s nothing that he cannot do,He knows no word like “fail.”“Our confidence” he would restore,Of that there is no doubt;But if there is a chair to mend,We have to send it out.
All public questions that arise,He settles on the spot;He waits not till the tumult dies,But grabs it while it’s hot.In matters of finance he canTell Congress what to do;But, O, he finds it hard to meetHis bills as they fall due.
It almost makes him sick to readThe things law-makers say;Why, father’s just the man they need,He never goes astray.All wars he’d very quickly end,As fast as I can write it;But when a neighbor starts a fuss,’Tis mother has to fight it.
In conversation father canDo many wondrous things;He’s built upon a wiser planThan presidents or kings.He knows the ins and outs of eachAnd every deep transaction;We look to him for theories,But look to ma for action. – Father, Edgar Albert Guest.
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Teach A Man To Fish
Posted on June 14, 2011
A wise friend told me about the modern variation to the old adage about fishing and feeding. The new version goes like this: “Feed a man a fish and you’ll have to feed him for the rest of his life. Teach a man to fish and he’ll wipe out the fishes.”
I thought this was catchy, but didn’t know how true it was. Last week, via a link from kottke.org, I came across this shocking visual put together by David McCandless, author of a blog on the UK daily, The Guardian.
Vanishing Fish by David McCandless
David explains the picture:
“This image shows the biomass of popularly-eaten fish in the North Atlantic Ocean in 1900 and in 2000. Popularly eaten fish include: bluefin tuna, cod, haddock, hake, halibut, herring, mackerel, pollock, salmon, sea trout, striped bass, sturgeon, turbot. Many of which are now vulnerable or endangered.”
David explains another very crucial and chilling point, about memory and public policy. He says that most of us who’re trying to protect these fishes don’t even know how rich the seas were once upon a time, because we have no memory of them, the damage done before our generation was born. So, whatever policies we come up with are already poor. As W.S. Merwin wrote in the poem, Witness:
I want to tell what the forests
were likeI will have to speak
in a forgotten language
If you thought, well that is why I eat farmed fish, you’re out of luck. Following a link from David’s blog, I came across this 1 minute video that succinctly summarizes why eating farmed fish isn’t better, it might be worse!
Eating Fish from Nigel Upchurch on Vimeo.
When Maya and her children question our carelessness and profligacy, the bereft land that we bequeath them, how shall we answer ?
Gray Whale
Now that we are sending you to The End
That great god
Tell him
That we who follow you invented forgiveness
And forgive nothingI write as though you could understand
And I could say it
One must always pretend something
Among the dying
When you have left the seas nodding on their stalks
Empty of you
Tell him that we were made
On another dayThe bewilderment will diminish like an echo
Winding along your inner mountains
Unheard by us
And find its way out
Leaving behind it the future
Dead
And ours
- A Coming Extinction, W.S. Merwin
Spring Rain
Posted on May 29, 2011
Now the rain is falling, freshly, in the intervals between sunlight,
a Pacific squall started no one knows where, drawn east
as the drifts of warm air make a channel;
it moves its own way, like water or the mind,and spills this rain passing over. The Sierras will catch
it as last snow flurries before summer, observed only by
the wakened marmots at 10,000 feet, – Spring Rain, Robert Hass
The day began beautifully, with just enough specks of white cloud pinned against a blue sky. It is Memorial Day weekend and summer is almost here.
By the time Maya woke up from her afternoon nap, the sky was gray. I want to go to Dolores Park demanded Maya. Shanthala demurred because she thought that it might rain. The prediction says less than 1 mm, I said, lets take her to the park. So we set out.
As we reached the park, water came down like a fine spray, too fine to be a bother, but not insufficient to be ignored. Maya dashed off to play. Shanthala and I sought shelter from the rain under some slides. The spray turned to drizzle and drizzle turned to a fine rain. Spring asserted a reminder that it wasn’t yet done.
But, Maya couldn’t be deterred. Most parents were scurrying home when we reached the park. The rather crowded park was mostly empty. A group of young people were dancing to beer and loud techno music. Maya stood under the rain staring at them. Soon, she began to sway to the incessant rhythm of the music.
I remembered what Sir Ken Robinson had said in his talk. Why isn’t dancing as common in the curriculum as math and language. After all, don’t we have bodies ? I remembered my awkwardness at dance. My father loved dance music and took the opportunity to shake to the rhythm whenever he could. My mom thought it shocking or at least, unacceptable for a grown up man to do what he did. I imbued my mother’s shame and not my father’s abandon when it came to dancing. Probably, I also felt that if I couldn’t be good at it, I shouldn’t try. How strange, what we chose to copy and what we chose to avoid from each of our parents.
The city, usually a brilliant sight from the park, was almost invisible in the rain.
The night before, Maya woke up in the middle of the night and vomited. She vomited three more times before she slept fitfully the reminder of the night. The sheets were a mess and we retired to another bedroom to sleep. As I struggled to fall back asleep, I thought about how unfazed we parents of this generation are with our children’s malaises such as vomiting. Two generations back, at least in India, it must have been so difficult for a parent to know what to be afraid of and what not to be. Children died of the most simple things, things such as vomiting. But I also think about how easy my parents made parenting seem. I think I’d go mad if I had to stay home and care for Maya full time and cook and take care of the house. And I don’t think this is because I’m a man, thought that may have something to do with it, with how I was raised and what I was told was in store for me.
But parents also thought differently. I know of no one of my generation who wasn’t scared of their father. I don’t want Maya to be scared of me. But she does get scared when I lose my temper, as I sometimes do, when I can’t find a way around her obstinacy to even simple requests. For example, she insisted on eating an unripened banana despite my attempts to explain why that wasn’t a good idea and offering her a ripened one. Sometimes, the explaining helps. The other day, she wanted to wear her underwear back-to-front i.e. wearing what is front at the back. Insisting and pleading that she wear it the right way didn’t help. I then got out one of my own and wearing it the way she wanted to, explained the problems with doing so. She immediately switched to wearing it the right way. My parents would’ve whacked me and made me wear it the right way.
As frustrating as her obstinacy seems, it also makes up for a lot of rewarding moments, because she doesn’t give up at many other things. She did about 10 minutes on the treadmill on Friday. After almost a month of saying she wanted to run on it, but refusing to when I offered to help her, she did it mostly on her own on Friday. I found it delightful watching her slow up the ante, going as fast as 5 mph before deciding that 3-4 mph was far more comfortable. She first figured out if she could stop the treadmill when she wanted to, without my help. Then she slowly increased the amount of time she spent walking before she switched off and integrated (that’s my theory) the experience. Then she increased the speed. She is resolute in trying to figure it all out by herself, asking for help only when she’s in trouble or can’t figure it out.
The year is almost half over. I often wonder how effectively I use my time. Maya has been listening to Pink Floyd’s classic “Dark Side of the Moon” of late, especially the song Time. It was one of the first songs whose lyrics stayed with me. I especially ruminate over the ending.
Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I’d something more to say
I’ve always rejected the notion of hanging on in quiet desperation. I’ve rejected waiting till I’m older, more settled to do something more such as explore the world, play the guitar or enjoy a sunset. What no one told me about parenting is that it involves a lot of waiting. Everything else has to be mostly put aside for the first few years. At least, that’s how it has seemed to me. I wonder if half-scribbled lines is all I can show at the pearly gates. I’m so numbed at the end of the day, I just lapse into mindless activities like browsing or checking email (not even responding) instead of doing something more productive. It takes me a while before I can tackle chores or even indulge in a little writing.
Life knows no moderation. We have this relentless demand on our time when they’re young and a relentless ache in our hearts when they’re older and not around as much as you like them to be. Why can’t you, life, show some moderation, moderation that is demanded of us for a good life.
Yes, I miss my solitude. But then, when Maya holds my face and says “I love you Papa”, as she did for the first time last week, with a tenderness in her eyes that made me think she said the words with knowledge, not a mere parroting, I think the price has been worth it. I remember that with parenting, time has a beauty that is both casual and intense.
There were orange poppies on the table in a clear glass vase,
stained near the bottom to the color of sunrise;
the unstated theme was the blessedness of gathering and the
blessing of dispersal—
it made you glad for beauty like that, casual and intense,
lasting as long as the poppies last. – Spring Rain, Robert Hass
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While I Was Gone
Posted on May 4, 2011
A small brown wren in the tangle
of the climbing rose. April:
last rain, the first dazzle
and reluctance of the light. – Cuttings, Robert Hass
While I was gone, April has turned to May. The fickle weather has given way to blazing heat these past few days. Will the very wet winter yield to a very hot summer ?
And then in mid-May the first morning of steady heat
the morning, Leif says, when you wake up, put on shorts and that’s it for the day.
when you pour coffee and walk outside, blinking in the sun.
Strawberries have appeared in the markets, and peaches will soon;
- Late Spring, Robert Hass
The very wet winter has created such a lush life that pollen allergies seem to be all the rage. Maya and I have been plagued with runny nose and Maya had a low grade fever for three nights. Local newspapers speak of pollen counts are the highest in 20 years.
I wasn’t gone anywhere. Had just battened down, caught up on the daily rhythms of waking up to Maya’s “Papa”, the knowledge that Shanthala was ten thousand miles away. Caught up in the cooking, cleaning, working that filled my days. And time spent with friends visiting us from India who stayed for two weeks. Caught up in placating Maya who thought that their appearance had something to do with Shanthala’s disappearance. Who expressed her unhappiness at their presence, showed what seemed akin to sibling rivalry, an unwillingness to spare my time and attention.
While I was gone, a final chapter in the story of Osama vs Obama was written. Osama had been dead for two days before I came upon the news. That’s how conversant I was with my laptop.
While I was gone, stories kept unspooling in my head, but went unsaid, unwritten. The eyes were held spellbound by the chiaroscuro of light and rain, sun and clouds, of the beauty of spring flowers, lupine and california poppy, ice plant and feral cabbage. But the hands remained frozen, unable to sculpt the words that spoke of what the eyes saw, the body felt an my whole being experienced.
A man thinks lilacs against white houses, having seen them in the farm country
south of Tacoma in April, and can’t find his way to a sentence, a
brushstroke carrying the energy of brush and stroke – Spring Drawing, Robert Hass
And now I’m back from my exile. Again. Thank you for waiting, dear reader.
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