How gorgeous to measure time in 'a heartbeat long.' I love how your fathers only word in this poem is and awe struck 'Oh.' Sometimes there are no words, but I'm glad you shared yours with us here.
This quiet poem is a lovely portrait of your father, Elizabeth. You paint an image so clear in my mind. I feel like I’ve met him. What a valuable addition to the cannon of your memories.
I don't know you or your dad, but I almost feel as if I do from the specific details that carry so much information about him and about you. Reminds me of how the universal is always most conveyed through specifics. Such a powerful tribute--real, heartfelt, and not saccharine. Nothing rings false. He seems like a good but not necessarily easy person.
Thank you so much for your kind words, Rita. "The universal is always most conveyed though specifics" is the heart of what I understand poetry to be, and to be for. And, yes -- not remotely an easy person, my father, but with great good in him.
I love this: "Sometimes love looks a lot like bafflement. Sometimes it looks like sitting in lawn-chairs for hours, staring up at a nest at the top of a tree fifty yards away. Sometimes it looks like a chorus of cranes crossing a winter sky." But then, I love all of it.
He was that, Angela -- I've spent a lifetime sorting out what I know and believe and feel about him, and the things we had in common (among the many things we didn't). Poems help! Thank you so much for reading.
Oh my, what a beautiful ache, Elizabeth. Also it sounds like your dad was definitely a birder; anyone who would drive somewhere and stand for hours with his binoculars trained on the sky or a tree, or kept a stack of birding books around qualifies...
Also, this phrase, "while hummingbirds like sequined drones came darting..." is perfect. We have many such sequined flyers at our fuschias these days. So lovely.
Elizabeth, I had to wait for the tears to clear before responding to your poem. It is so kindly written and so reminiscent of my dad, too. I cared for my dad in a nice little 2nd floor apartment with a little balcony that he spent a lot of time on watching the birds with and without his binoculars. They all were of interest to him, with very few words ever spoken about it. Thank you as always for sharing your talent.
Very good, so very touching in such an light, off handed way, that I can't even... What kind of work did he do? My parents didn't do emotion talk either and we all loved birds too.
Thanks so much, Wes. The "light, off-handed way" of writing about my dad has its own history -- a way of creating some necessary distance while still staying in the room, so to speak.
Dad worked for our state's Department of Fish and Wildlife -- ducked promotion to a desk job until about ten years before he retired, so he spent most of his time in field work, checking up on hunters and fishermen to make sure they obeyed the laws, checking in on waterways and wilderness areas to be sure they were in good shape to support the creatures who lived in them.
Were your parents "Greatest Generation" folks? Mine were. Damn heroes, bless them; could deal with nearly anything except their own feelings or someone else's.
Yeah Dad went through the war, and they both had the Depression childhoods. They were very talented people, writers and linguists both and Mom was a sculptor. They were both lifelong high functioning alcoholics and didn't do feelings. Not once did either one ever ask me a personal question but my brothers and I felt loved and cared for so we had that. It was a different world, wasn't it?
This beautiful poem reminds me that not all truth is expressed (or expressible) in language. There are other modes of communicating understanding. Perhaps a hard truth for preachers and poets!
A very contemplative conclusion, John! And I agree with you insofar as I observe the ways that our bodies share communication wordlessly -- with other creatures (human and not), with our own selves, with the God Who embodies us. My poems (and sermons) work best, I think, when I pay the closest attention to what the physical world including my body observes and communicates ... including the stories that express so much of our faith. If I'm lucky and don't get in the way too much, the inexpressible truths come in along with the stories.
I knew your father when he was a game warden while sitting around your dinner table
NOW I see there was MUCH more to know.
A truly wonderful tribute to your father.
Complexity of relationship? I hear you! My own father ? Complex…
❤️🩹
This is deeply moving, Elizabeth.
Thanks, Amy -- so glad it spoke to you. 💛🌿
How gorgeous to measure time in 'a heartbeat long.' I love how your fathers only word in this poem is and awe struck 'Oh.' Sometimes there are no words, but I'm glad you shared yours with us here.
Thanks so much, Treasa. 💛🌿
This quiet poem is a lovely portrait of your father, Elizabeth. You paint an image so clear in my mind. I feel like I’ve met him. What a valuable addition to the cannon of your memories.
Thank you, Ann. 💛🌿
Absolutely beautiful tribute to your dad.
Thanks so much, Joani! 💛🌿
A beautiful poem as always. Thank you.
The cranes flying away at the conclusion was a perfect elliptical ending for the baffled emotion…
Thanks for reading, Shari -- glad it spoke to you.
I don't know you or your dad, but I almost feel as if I do from the specific details that carry so much information about him and about you. Reminds me of how the universal is always most conveyed through specifics. Such a powerful tribute--real, heartfelt, and not saccharine. Nothing rings false. He seems like a good but not necessarily easy person.
Thank you so much for your kind words, Rita. "The universal is always most conveyed though specifics" is the heart of what I understand poetry to be, and to be for. And, yes -- not remotely an easy person, my father, but with great good in him.
Thank you so much. I think it will speak to our folks in the seats as well.
I found the poem to be deeply layered and hope I can bring that across in my reading.
I love this: "Sometimes love looks a lot like bafflement. Sometimes it looks like sitting in lawn-chairs for hours, staring up at a nest at the top of a tree fifty yards away. Sometimes it looks like a chorus of cranes crossing a winter sky." But then, I love all of it.
Thanks so much, Margaret Ann. 💛🌿
Happy Fathers Day. Your father sounds like a very interesting fellow!
He was that, Angela -- I've spent a lifetime sorting out what I know and believe and feel about him, and the things we had in common (among the many things we didn't). Poems help! Thank you so much for reading.
Oh my, what a beautiful ache, Elizabeth. Also it sounds like your dad was definitely a birder; anyone who would drive somewhere and stand for hours with his binoculars trained on the sky or a tree, or kept a stack of birding books around qualifies...
Also, this phrase, "while hummingbirds like sequined drones came darting..." is perfect. We have many such sequined flyers at our fuschias these days. So lovely.
Okay, a birder without a life list -- just a lot of memories! Fair enough. Thanks so much for reading and commenting, Jody.
Elizabeth, I had to wait for the tears to clear before responding to your poem. It is so kindly written and so reminiscent of my dad, too. I cared for my dad in a nice little 2nd floor apartment with a little balcony that he spent a lot of time on watching the birds with and without his binoculars. They all were of interest to him, with very few words ever spoken about it. Thank you as always for sharing your talent.
Our dads, and all they didn't have words for ... ! Thank you for reading and sharing, Sandy.
Very good, so very touching in such an light, off handed way, that I can't even... What kind of work did he do? My parents didn't do emotion talk either and we all loved birds too.
Thanks so much, Wes. The "light, off-handed way" of writing about my dad has its own history -- a way of creating some necessary distance while still staying in the room, so to speak.
Dad worked for our state's Department of Fish and Wildlife -- ducked promotion to a desk job until about ten years before he retired, so he spent most of his time in field work, checking up on hunters and fishermen to make sure they obeyed the laws, checking in on waterways and wilderness areas to be sure they were in good shape to support the creatures who lived in them.
Were your parents "Greatest Generation" folks? Mine were. Damn heroes, bless them; could deal with nearly anything except their own feelings or someone else's.
Yeah Dad went through the war, and they both had the Depression childhoods. They were very talented people, writers and linguists both and Mom was a sculptor. They were both lifelong high functioning alcoholics and didn't do feelings. Not once did either one ever ask me a personal question but my brothers and I felt loved and cared for so we had that. It was a different world, wasn't it?
Staggeringly different. 💛🌿
Beautiful words! Thank you for sharing this, Elizabeth. 💛
I'm so glad you enjoyed it, Fotini -- thank you for reading. 💛🌿
This beautiful poem reminds me that not all truth is expressed (or expressible) in language. There are other modes of communicating understanding. Perhaps a hard truth for preachers and poets!
A very contemplative conclusion, John! And I agree with you insofar as I observe the ways that our bodies share communication wordlessly -- with other creatures (human and not), with our own selves, with the God Who embodies us. My poems (and sermons) work best, I think, when I pay the closest attention to what the physical world including my body observes and communicates ... including the stories that express so much of our faith. If I'm lucky and don't get in the way too much, the inexpressible truths come in along with the stories.