For David, On His Birthday

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.

Blazon for Poppi:

my cat Poppi who is as wise as night-time

and as sensible as the day;

who mothers me as I mother her;

my cat Poppi who is small and sleek,

not black though she looks black,

but sable, red-brown in the light;

who loves warmth and lies by the heater

or tucks herself under blankets;

whose little face is the sweetest;

who loves to cuddle, purring;

who, being profoundly deaf,

has mastered body language 

and an expressive miaow;

who likes to rest on her pillow 

on my bed, to be near me;

who is nocturnal and spends her nights

up on the window-sill, gazing out at the street

or in daytime peers through the big glass door 

at nothing I can see, but she is fascinated;

who is Burmese, and likes to be up high,

leaping with agility despite her old age; Poppi who 

is the perfect cat for me at this late time of my life.

A blazon is a French form which lists attributes of the beloved.

I'm linking this to Friday Writings #158 at Poets and Storytellers United, where we are invited to write about what comes to mind when we see the word "prioritize".  This poem was already written, but it's hard to think of a better fit. My little cat is a top priority for me, as she is dependent on me for absolutely everything — a responsibility I take very seriously, as well as gladly.

Wandering Through the Prison

I am there in the walls of Pentridge

among the other ghosts. 

The face of my younger self

floats in and out of the stones.

I walk down the old paths

between the flower beds 

and in through the door

of the small prefab classroom.

But the paths and the classroom

are long gone, ghosts now as well.

Tourists who come are unaware

of that old reality’s exact details.

Ghosts of my friends linger too, 

brothers of my heart, my students

who taught me more than I taught them:

their younger selves, surviving.

I’m glad the place was closed. 

It carried much evil and only

a little good. Was evil in the men I met?

Perhaps. More in how they were treated.

We are all gone from there now,

out into other lives — except the one

still imprisoned. Except that other one

who died. Do we still meet in those corridors?

I like to think that even after I’m gone

to wherever we go when we leave,

some fragments of the selves we were

linger, weaving love through those old stones.

My Unbearable Silence

or, Why I’m Not Writing About Wars and the Extinction of Species

My unbearable silence

will not let go of me.

Words choke in my throat.

The poems don’t stumble

or fall – they are paralysed

before they start. Horrors

we can’t help contemplate

strike me silent. It’s not 

that I don’t want to cry out

against them. To scream or sob

would be release, if only

in that moment. To yell outrage

might at least make the point,

even to those who refuse to listen:

they could not afterwards claim

that the words were never said.

But the saying dies inside me

before being born, in the face of 

all the words said by others, unheard.

Written for Poets and Storytellers United, in response to Friday Writings #144; To speak up or stay silent? in which we are invited to consider a poem by Rajani Radhakrishnan. My title here, and the reference to stumbling and falling, quote that poem.

Tableau of My Street

Two magpies warbling

in the sunny day

soar across my street,

my little hill street

beneath the mountain

and the great clear sky.

In all the gardens

lining my calm street,

trees and more trees reach

high and wide. There is

an ease, a leisure,

in their space, their spread.

The magpies, too, are

blithely unhurried

although gone too soon

with their liquid song,

guided by instinct

as their lives require.

They won’t go as far 

as the mountain. That

is home to eagles.

Those, I love to watch

riding the currents

of the lofty winds.

But that’s memory:

an earlier street

the other mountain

and my love, who was

alive then, watching

beside me, smiling.

This town surrounded

by mountains and birds,

and everywhere trees,

delights me daily. 

In the long nights, still,

I know myself blessed.

Sharing with Friday Writings #143 at Poets and Storytellers United. 

Off prompt. Instead I'm pinching a recent form prompt from dVerse: the tableau poetry style. (The instructions say 5 beats per line, but examination reveals them to be not beats but syllables. Beats in a line of poetry are usually understood as the stressed syllables.)