Our Parents
Our parents died at least twice,
the second time when we forgot their stories,
or couldn’t imagine how often they craved love,
or felt useless, or yearned for some justice
in this world. In their graves, our parents’ need
for us is pure, they’re lost without us.
Their honeymoon in Havana does or does not
exist. That late August in the Catskills-
we can decide to make them happy.
What is the past if not unfinished work,
swampy, fecund, seductively revisable?
One of us has spent his life developing respect
for the weakness of words, the other for what
must be held on to; there may be a chance for us.
We try to say what happened in that first house
where we were, like most children, the only
needy people on earth. We remember
what we were forbidden, who got the biggest slice.
Our parents, meanwhile, must have wanted something
back from us, We know what it is, don’t we?
We’ve been alive long enough.
Stephen Dunn
So what does a man with both parents alive wrestle with in posting this poem?
Which, BTW, seems to have stopped the blogience dead in its tracks. Alas. No nephews, food macros, or sagas — you’ve delved into topics arguably more apropos of Psyche.
I detect in this poem a disturbing flirt with revisionist history, not to mention a glimpse at one of the root causes of apples falling so near trees. While I would never advocate “Next” in regards to parents or other deeply loved ones, nor would I hold that the fruition of their existence lies in us. True, they had us presumably as part of self-realization, but I wonder how much that current can flow both ways. Part of what teenagers rebel against, perhaps, is their understanding of the vicarious or belated self-amendment nature of the parental relationship. That this should persist or be reassumed post-mortem has implications for one’s own self-realization.
But as another man with both parents alive and only mid-life stepchildren (vs. raised from birth), I’m perhaps ill-qualified. Or just in denial.
Stunner of a poem. Thanks for it.
Comment by adam — September 4, 2003 @ 8:26 am
I did something semi-unforgivable. Because I didn’t take the time to format this poem, as it was in print, I left out the line below the title that was indented to the right. For my brother. Makes more sense now?
And I read it as learn the lessons of the those who have already learned them.
“Our parents died at least twice,
the second time when we forgot their stories”
“Our parents, meanwhile, must have wanted something
back from us, We know what it is, don’t we?”
Here is one by our new Poet Laureate (http://www.loc.gov/poetry/laureate.html)
A Fantasy
I’ll tell you something: every day
people are dying. And that’s just the beginning.
Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
new orphans. They sit with their hands folded,
trying to decide about this new life.
Then they’re in the cemetery, some of them
for the first time. They’re frightened of crying,
sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over,
tells them what to do next, which might mean
saying a few words, sometimes
throwing dirt in the open grave.
And after that, everyone goes back to the house,
which is suddenly full of visitors.
The widow sits on the couch, very stately,
so people line up to approach her,
sometimes take her hand, sometimes embrace her.
She finds something to say to everybody,
thanks them, thanks them for coming.
In her heart, she wants them to go away.
She wants to be back in the cemetery,
back in the sickroom, the hospital. She knows
it isn’t possible. But it’s her only hope,
the wish to move backward. And just a little,
not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.
Louise Gluck
Your turn?
Comment by Michael — September 4, 2003 @ 12:24 pm
Did you also see that Louise had been a special Bicentennial Consultant Poet Laureate?
I’m not given to surrounding myself with written inspirational exhortations, but I keep this pinned up near me at work — in which version the text is center-justified and reads better. It’s actually not so much inspirational, but a challenge, an admonition, and it speaks obliquely to our relationship to our parents and the past:
There is no one but us.
There is no one to send,
nor a clean hand nor a pure heart
on the face of the earth, nor in the earth,
but only us,
a generation comforting ourselves
with the notion that we have come at an awkward time,
that our innocent fathers are all dead
— as if innocence had ever been —
and our children busy and troubled,
and we ourselves unfit, not yet ready,
having each of us chosen wrongly,
made a false start, failed,
yielded to impulse
and the tangled comfort of pleasures,
and grown exhausted, unable to seek the thread, weak, and involved.
But there is no one but us.
There never has been.
ANNIE DILLARD, Holy the Firm
Comment by adam — September 4, 2003 @ 3:04 pm
Goodness the Blog is getting intense. Louise Gluck is depressing. Perhaps that is a prerequisite to being poet laureate.
Comment by a.a.milne where are you — September 4, 2003 @ 4:10 pm
Okay, a.a., try this one on for size.
Twilight: After Haying
Yes, long shadows go out
from the bales; and yes, the soul
must part from the body:
what else could it do?
The men sprawl near the baler,
reluctant to leave the field.
The talk and smoke,
and the tips of their cigarettes
blaze like small roses
in the night air. (It arrived
and settled among them
before they were aware.)
The moon comes
to count the bales,
and the dispossessed-
Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will
-sings from the dust stubble.
These things happen…the soul’s bliss
and suffering are bound together
like the grasses… .
The last, sweet exhalations
of timothy and vetch
go out with the song of the bird;
the ravaged field
grows wet with dew.
Jane Keyon
—
Comment by Michael — September 4, 2003 @ 9:00 pm
Adam, you left off the first line:
“Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? Or who shall stand in his holy place?”
Comment by Michael — September 4, 2003 @ 9:15 pm
Gawd. Maya Angelou’s works aside, here is my very favorite poem, for two reasons. First of all, it rhymes (share that secret with your Poet Laureate!) secondly, it brings a tear to my eye without anyone dying in it. And I don’t have to read it 5 times to understand it
The End
When I was One,
I had just begun.
When I was Two,
I was nearly new.
When I was Three,
I was hardly me.
When I was Four,
I was not much more.
When I was Five,
I was just alive.
But now I am Six, I’m as clever as clever.
So I think I’ll be six now for ever and ever.
-a.a. milne
And that’s all she wrote…
Comment by a.a. responds — September 4, 2003 @ 10:25 pm
Does Matthew write poetry yet?
Comment by Michael — September 5, 2003 @ 11:24 am
The Prozac finally having kicked in, I am now able to add a few cents to a.a.’s sense and to add a poem, as well.
First, as to the Stephen Dunn piece, I would ask, “If it is not worth doing, is it worth doing well?”
Now to my poetic addition. Most of my fella’s poems do not rhyme, although this one does. And some of his messages make me cry, although this one makes me smile. But all make me think and only a few need to be read five times to get any meaning at all.
THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY
W. B. Yeats
When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Mocharabuiee*.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate.
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance.
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’
And dance like the wave of the sea.
Pronounced as if spelled: Mockrabwee
Comment by Lady Gregory — September 5, 2003 @ 1:32 pm
I did not know the Dillard piece had a prologue/quote — that’s just how the reprint I have has it. Sorry.
a.a.’s reasons are good reasons all, as are Lady Gregory’s, and both speak clearly to simply living. Amen to that.
Comment by adam — September 5, 2003 @ 1:45 pm
Lady Gregory, have you been to the Sligo Fair? Does it still exist?
And I loved your turn of the phrase even though I have no clue, none, zip, zilch, of what you are talking about. I need a hint.
As for Yeats, I found this:
ìAll the ills of mankind, all the tragic misfortunes that fill the history books, all the political blunders, all the failures of the great leaders have arisen merely from a lack of skill at dancing.î†ó Moliere
The box arrived yesterday – rotting apples and underwear stuffed into the coffee pot.
Adam, take note of her email address.
Comment by Puzzled — September 5, 2003 @ 3:34 pm
I did, and could parse neither it, nor the same phrases which tickle your mind. Love your rejoinder, though, as well as the overall dance of this serial/fugue “conversation”. Like several bands/orchestras playing in nearby rooms, us all in a central space sharing acoustics with all of them. Hard to dance to, or even pick out any one beat, but hard not to try, however syncopated.
Comment by beneficiary — September 5, 2003 @ 4:07 pm
To explain my address:
In the early days of the last century, I opened my family estate, Coole Park in County Galway, and my wallet to the writers of plays and poems and songs and a handful of rebels and intellectuals who were leading the Gaelic revival movement in Ireland. WB was a frequent visitor.
Is it my need for Prozac that Puzzled and beneficiary do not understand? Or is it my opinion that the message in the Dunn piece, no matter how beautifully spelled out, is rubbish?
And by the by, I meant to say “add my two cents to aa’s GOOD sense.”
Comment by Lady Gregory — September 5, 2003 @ 4:48 pm
Lady Gregory, I understood the need for Prozac and I loved your contribution. I didn’t need to read it 5 times, though I did need to read it 3 to get it’s essence. The third time I read it out loud which did the trick. It made me and those in the room smile. It occurred to me that the reason I like poems that rhyme is they are more fun to read out loud than are dirges.
Comment by a.a. quite pleased — September 5, 2003 @ 5:13 pm
What, A. A., a few verses of “Dies Irae” do not set your foot to tappin’? How perfectly sane of you!
Glad the “Fiddler” made you smile. My favorite Yeats, however, is “The Stolen Child.” It may take several readings to get a feel for and it’s too long to copy out here. But it does have an interesting rhyme scheme and is worth the work of reading it, I think. You may want to give it a go.
Comment by Lady Gregory — September 6, 2003 @ 12:14 pm
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can
††††††understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can
†††††understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can
†††††understand.
Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can
†††††††understand.
Comment by Uptothe — September 6, 2003 @ 1:39 pm