How is it that you are 57?
I remember your birth:
panting for breath on the hospital bed,
the nurses chiding me for swearing
at pain like nothing I’d known.
Then, at the end, I thought
I’d split in half from sternum to crotch.
I didn’t care, so long as you got born.
I wanted you in the world!
After you were born, groggy
in my unaccustomed arms,
you were very gentle
for one who had caused so much pain
struggling to break free into the world.
You slept on my breast.
I was afraid I might drop you,
and handed you back to the nurses.
When I took you home,
I saw you push your tiny arms
out of the blanket I’d been told
to swaddle you in, and wave them
softly in the air, gazing up at them
in wonder – I recognised
the little, fluttery movements I’d felt
when I was carrying you in my womb.
As an infant you were full of
delight in the world, and you
loved me dearly, crooning to yourself
as you toddled round the house,
'Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,
I love you. You my good girl.'
As a schoolboy, you revealed a dry wit.
Something in you was always wise
and knowledgeable – your father and I
both used to ask your advice
as if you were an adult, and you gave it
thoughtfully and well.
We like to have deep, revealing talks,
you and I, when we get together –
not all the time, but at least
once per visit. As a man,
you have weathered problems and sorrows
without losing your fairness of mind
and your loving nature.
You look after me now, in what ways you can.
All in all, you have been and are
one of my greatest blessings.
I still want you in the world.
An exercise in Natalie Goldberg's book, The True Secret of Writing, asks one to list occasions one might write a poem for, then write it in the style of Wang Wei, a Chinese poet of the Tang dynasty – i.e. truthfully and in 'unfancy' language.
