This is a little tale of how one poem led to another....
Early today I picked up my iPhone and went to one of my favorite apps -- The Poetry Foundation has free app that allows you to search for poems under various categories. But that is not why this is one of my favorite apps. It is because of the "spin" option -- with the click of a button, a random category comes up, giving several options of poems to read.
The poem that came up today was "I Too Have Been to Candyland" by Anthony Madrid. (Here's a link to the poem if you are so inclined.) In the poem, which seems to be a negative assessment of a poetry professor, the poet mentions Bill Varner. I was not familiar with Bill Varner, so went on a Google search.
What I discovered is that Bill Varner is a poet and professor and, at least at one time, was an editor at Stenhouse Publishers. The site for Stenhouse has a blog for educators, and on the blog Bill often submits poems for their "Poetry Friday" feature. It is the poem I found there that is the focus of my blog today.
Here is where I make a leap to Father's Day. This time of year is probably one of the toughest for me. It is the trifecta of loss: my father died on May 31, 1998, just before his 69th birthday -- June 23. In between falls Father's Day. So not thinking about my father is not an option this time of year.
Over the years I have gotten better about Father's Day. I don't just ignore it like I did the first several years after his transition. In fact, I've even made dinner reservations to treat my husband to Cristof's on MacGregor for Father's Day this year. And last year I started a tradition of baking my father's favorite cake on his birthday -- yellow with chocolate frosting. There are so many little ways here on earth to honor and remember.
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| Photo of my dad with my sister, early 80's |
Now, back to this lovely poem by Timothy Cook of Asheville -- submitted by Bill Varner (whom I never heard of until today) -- a beautiful tribute to fathers. It is one of those rare poems that grabs immediately because it doesn't have unusual words or a cryptic message. I love its directness, yet at the same time there are layers of meaning. In fact, in rereading it, I continually find lines that I missed in previous readings, each one bringing a lump to my throat. I am considering this as a mentor text for more writing today. Of course, this poem falls neatly into my Magna Carta -- fathers and sons.
Anthony Madrid may not have thought much of Bill Varner when he wrote his "Candyland" poem, but I am grateful for it today, having led me to this beautiful piece of writing.
Here is the link to the poem on the Stenhouse Publishers website. (It is set so that I can't copy and paste the poem directly in here and I cannot find it anywhere else.) The educators blog is well worth checking out. Have a wonderful and poetic Thursday!
Proud Son of an Honor Roll Student
Poetry Friday: Proud Son of an Honor Roll Student
January 2nd, 2009
Here’s a poem about teaching from Timothy Cook, a poet living in Asheville, NC. About it he says, “What is significant to me about this poem is the unconscious motivation behind one’s actions, that teaching is not just a job, but an answering to a call coming from deep within one’s self.”
Proud Son of an Honor Roll Student
Both strange & wise was my dad’s advice
when he told me to never tell my teachers
that he was an English professor . . .
& long was the road from his father’s shed
to the front of a classroom. When I think of
my dad, I have to consider him
as the son of a carpenter, the youngest son
who could never measure up to the oldest
no matter what he did. Despite the houses built,
the mountains cleared, the boats sailed,
the marathons run, nothing was ever enough.
So finally he gave up & went to college,
which was way too much because back in Holland
his father finished school by the sixth grade.
When I think of my dad, I have to remind myself
that he is the son of an immigrant,
growing up to amass a staggering amount
of books, shelves covering the living room wall
fifteen feet across, from floor to ceiling.
Not an idol in the house & yet we blessed
Our Lord and these thy gifts before every meal,
my dad’s greatest disappointment
that I no longer attend church. When I think of
my one-dollar-a-week allowance,
I have to realize that when my dad stuck
his hand out for money his father spit into it.
No matter how much I, the youngest son,
ever messed up, it was never too much.
I could still return to my dad
like when I’d come home from grade school
for lunch—a cuisine of frozen pizza
or macaroni & cheese with canned sardines.
I remember crying the one time I saw
my parents fight, my dad storming out to a bar
or something, although he never drank,
just a few rum & cokes in all those years
of working nights & watching me
during the days. When I think of my dad’s life,
I have to admit to the things he left undone,
the unfinished sections of the house, the carpentry
he didn’t teach me, the books he never wrote.
Then I remember that too often we dwell
on shortcomings, forgetting
that my dad worked his way to a Ph.D.,
stayed with one woman for his entire life,
& taught immigrants how to read and write
English, immigrants like his father . . .
& so it is that I love my dad
in silence, how men are allowed
to love one another, with simple gestures
like a head nod or a pat on the shoulder.
Poetry Friday: Proud Son of an Honor Roll Student
January 2nd, 2009
Here’s a poem about teaching from Timothy Cook, a poet living in Asheville, NC. About it he says, “What is significant to me about this poem is the unconscious motivation behind one’s actions, that teaching is not just a job, but an answering to a call coming from deep within one’s self.”
Proud Son of an Honor Roll Student
Both strange & wise was my dad’s advice
when he told me to never tell my teachers
that he was an English professor . . .
& long was the road from his father’s shed
to the front of a classroom. When I think of
my dad, I have to consider him
as the son of a carpenter, the youngest son
who could never measure up to the oldest
no matter what he did. Despite the houses built,
the mountains cleared, the boats sailed,
the marathons run, nothing was ever enough.
So finally he gave up & went to college,
which was way too much because back in Holland
his father finished school by the sixth grade.
When I think of my dad, I have to remind myself
that he is the son of an immigrant,
growing up to amass a staggering amount
of books, shelves covering the living room wall
fifteen feet across, from floor to ceiling.
Not an idol in the house & yet we blessed
Our Lord and these thy gifts before every meal,
my dad’s greatest disappointment
that I no longer attend church. When I think of
my one-dollar-a-week allowance,
I have to realize that when my dad stuck
his hand out for money his father spit into it.
No matter how much I, the youngest son,
ever messed up, it was never too much.
I could still return to my dad
like when I’d come home from grade school
for lunch—a cuisine of frozen pizza
or macaroni & cheese with canned sardines.
I remember crying the one time I saw
my parents fight, my dad storming out to a bar
or something, although he never drank,
just a few rum & cokes in all those years
of working nights & watching me
during the days. When I think of my dad’s life,
I have to admit to the things he left undone,
the unfinished sections of the house, the carpentry
he didn’t teach me, the books he never wrote.
Then I remember that too often we dwell
on shortcomings, forgetting
that my dad worked his way to a Ph.D.,
stayed with one woman for his entire life,
& taught immigrants how to read and write
English, immigrants like his father . . .
& so it is that I love my dad
in silence, how men are allowed
to love one another, with simple gestures
like a head nod or a pat on the shoulder.
Poetry Friday: Proud Son of an Honor Roll Student
January 2nd, 2009
Here’s a poem about teaching from Timothy Cook, a poet living in Asheville, NC. About it he says, “What is significant to me about this poem is the unconscious motivation behind one’s actions, that teaching is not just a job, but an answering to a call coming from deep within one’s self.”
Proud Son of an Honor Roll Student
Both strange & wise was my dad’s advice
when he told me to never tell my teachers
that he was an English professor . . .
& long was the road from his father’s shed
to the front of a classroom. When I think of
my dad, I have to consider him
as the son of a carpenter, the youngest son
who could never measure up to the oldest
no matter what he did. Despite the houses built,
the mountains cleared, the boats sailed,
the marathons run, nothing was ever enough.
So finally he gave up & went to college,
which was way too much because back in Holland
his father finished school by the sixth grade.
When I think of my dad, I have to remind myself
that he is the son of an immigrant,
growing up to amass a staggering amount
of books, shelves covering the living room wall
fifteen feet across, from floor to ceiling.
Not an idol in the house & yet we blessed
Our Lord and these thy gifts before every meal,
my dad’s greatest disappointment
that I no longer attend church. When I think of
my one-dollar-a-week allowance,
I have to realize that when my dad stuck
his hand out for money his father spit into it.
No matter how much I, the youngest son,
ever messed up, it was never too much.
I could still return to my dad
like when I’d come home from grade school
for lunch—a cuisine of frozen pizza
or macaroni & cheese with canned sardines.
I remember crying the one time I saw
my parents fight, my dad storming out to a bar
or something, although he never drank,
just a few rum & cokes in all those years
of working nights & watching me
during the days. When I think of my dad’s life,
I have to admit to the things he left undone,
the unfinished sections of the house, the carpentry
he didn’t teach me, the books he never wrote.
Then I remember that too often we dwell
on shortcomings, forgetting
that my dad worked his way to a Ph.D.,
stayed with one woman for his entire life,
& taught immigrants how to read and write
English, immigrants like his father . . .
& so it is that I love my dad
in silence, how men are allowed
to love one another, with simple gestures
like a head nod or a pat on the shoulder.
What a lovely way to have spent a few of my precious moments today! Thank you, Helen, you gifted me with this today!
ReplyDeleteI don't know what I admire more, your brain, your heart, or the way they are so beautifully entwined. Thanks for taking us on this journey today!
ReplyDelete