self-analysis in retrospect
Thanks to those of you who read my stuff last post, and thanks for the nice feedback. :)
The poem about my grandfather was meant to display an element of childlike comraderie between a child and a grandparent. Pretty much everything in the poem is true.
He did pass away on his 82nd birthday; I found this to be the most remarkable.
This poem was meant to capture the essence of the relationship I had with my Mexican grandfather, who was very much a product of the machismo stereotype. Line 6, the one about him being carried around like a king symbolizes his patriarchy still very much vibrant even after death. The following line, about him sneakily dying on the day of his birth was written because my grandfather was one of the first persons with whom I ever had any sort of theological conversations with. We'd sit on the front steps of my house on Kildare, and he'd read excerpts from the Bible to me and my cousins, and then he'd explain them. There was always something special about sitting in the middle of a gang-infested neighborhood talking about God. He was so close to God, and he didn't care who knew it. I wouldn't doubt it if he bartered with God to have this one final wish. Towards the end of the poem was a commentary about me not being on the ground being dramatic about his death. Many of my cousins were busy displaying this sort of drama while he was being buried. The rest of us...well- I can only speak for myself. But, as I watched his coffin being carried toward the burial site, it was honor that I felt. It was a sense of "I know I'll see you soon enough" that washed over me. I bent down on one knee to touch the ground and feel what it was that would cover the small box that contained the corporal remains of someone I loved. Nothing, however, could cover what was really left behind. In my life, I got to experience this man head on. I got to experience his laughter, I got to experience his temper, I got to experience his sense of humor (the baby oil joke was soooo very true,) his theology- I got to piece together why he was the way he was, and he was always so open to sharing his past with me. In retrospect, I was always asking him questions. I wonder if he ever got sick of that. Anyway, they buried him in a white suit. Granted, that was only his body, and not his essence, but still, it wasn't very Rodolfo. (that was his name.) I really did wish hard that they had buried him not only wearing his jacket, but also in his favorite chair! If only that was possible.
The 3 lines that close the poem are very dear to me. "Crying's for girls, right papa?" is me wishing that I wish I had perhaps been touched by that stoic machismo. Not in a receptive sense, but more as an observer, 'cause man...I can be such an emotional wreck sometimes. In the 2nd to last line, I remind myself that I have learned a bit about that machismo, I remind myself that I was not crying. I remembered that I'd run into him again, 'cause the story doesn't end here. Being so confident of that, I made a commitment to bring him his favorite earthly possession.
With that said, here's poem number 2, titled Nikko (and I'll explain why in tomorrow's post) written last October. But, if any of you who read this come up with a good title for it, please leave ideas in the comment section.
NIKKO
October creeps in- slips past the pregnant month and waits to show his face.
He even makes the trees weep in true October style-
inviting the cold to stay until May returns.
No one sees him, but I notice him one Saturday night.
Yes, at the end of day two, we congregate and sit amidst loud, tasteless music, drunken banter about whose Benz is faster, and a neglected soccer game on the t.v. screen.
There his face is at the bottom of my glass-
And I feel him breathing down my neck.
And the bottom of my glass becomes a familiar sight.
He makes me aware- never lets me forget, that the last month makes me older.
He makes me aware, and always makes it explicit-
I am older all by myself.
With no one's eyes to look into at my front door when my nose is red and the moon is sharp and God sprinkles the substance of clouds
They don't see you, October-
Not the way I do.
Your enigmatic punishment follows me- even here.
They don't see it-
The way you pierce right through my already ailing hope with intents as deadly as cyanide.
They just see me, October-
Smiling through the freezing pain in true jaded lover's style.
The poem about my grandfather was meant to display an element of childlike comraderie between a child and a grandparent. Pretty much everything in the poem is true.
He did pass away on his 82nd birthday; I found this to be the most remarkable.
This poem was meant to capture the essence of the relationship I had with my Mexican grandfather, who was very much a product of the machismo stereotype. Line 6, the one about him being carried around like a king symbolizes his patriarchy still very much vibrant even after death. The following line, about him sneakily dying on the day of his birth was written because my grandfather was one of the first persons with whom I ever had any sort of theological conversations with. We'd sit on the front steps of my house on Kildare, and he'd read excerpts from the Bible to me and my cousins, and then he'd explain them. There was always something special about sitting in the middle of a gang-infested neighborhood talking about God. He was so close to God, and he didn't care who knew it. I wouldn't doubt it if he bartered with God to have this one final wish. Towards the end of the poem was a commentary about me not being on the ground being dramatic about his death. Many of my cousins were busy displaying this sort of drama while he was being buried. The rest of us...well- I can only speak for myself. But, as I watched his coffin being carried toward the burial site, it was honor that I felt. It was a sense of "I know I'll see you soon enough" that washed over me. I bent down on one knee to touch the ground and feel what it was that would cover the small box that contained the corporal remains of someone I loved. Nothing, however, could cover what was really left behind. In my life, I got to experience this man head on. I got to experience his laughter, I got to experience his temper, I got to experience his sense of humor (the baby oil joke was soooo very true,) his theology- I got to piece together why he was the way he was, and he was always so open to sharing his past with me. In retrospect, I was always asking him questions. I wonder if he ever got sick of that. Anyway, they buried him in a white suit. Granted, that was only his body, and not his essence, but still, it wasn't very Rodolfo. (that was his name.) I really did wish hard that they had buried him not only wearing his jacket, but also in his favorite chair! If only that was possible.
The 3 lines that close the poem are very dear to me. "Crying's for girls, right papa?" is me wishing that I wish I had perhaps been touched by that stoic machismo. Not in a receptive sense, but more as an observer, 'cause man...I can be such an emotional wreck sometimes. In the 2nd to last line, I remind myself that I have learned a bit about that machismo, I remind myself that I was not crying. I remembered that I'd run into him again, 'cause the story doesn't end here. Being so confident of that, I made a commitment to bring him his favorite earthly possession.
With that said, here's poem number 2, titled Nikko (and I'll explain why in tomorrow's post) written last October. But, if any of you who read this come up with a good title for it, please leave ideas in the comment section.
NIKKO
October creeps in- slips past the pregnant month and waits to show his face.
He even makes the trees weep in true October style-
inviting the cold to stay until May returns.
No one sees him, but I notice him one Saturday night.
Yes, at the end of day two, we congregate and sit amidst loud, tasteless music, drunken banter about whose Benz is faster, and a neglected soccer game on the t.v. screen.
There his face is at the bottom of my glass-
And I feel him breathing down my neck.
And the bottom of my glass becomes a familiar sight.
He makes me aware- never lets me forget, that the last month makes me older.
He makes me aware, and always makes it explicit-
I am older all by myself.
With no one's eyes to look into at my front door when my nose is red and the moon is sharp and God sprinkles the substance of clouds
They don't see you, October-
Not the way I do.
Your enigmatic punishment follows me- even here.
They don't see it-
The way you pierce right through my already ailing hope with intents as deadly as cyanide.
They just see me, October-
Smiling through the freezing pain in true jaded lover's style.
posted by LoveisLife4Nen at 3:58 PM
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