Are You Listening?

On Saturday we threw a 60th birthday party for my dad at his favorite restaurant, in Brooklyn.  A couple weeks earlier he and my mom both independently asked me to perform my September 11th poem, which I felt was completely inappropriate for the occasion.  So I wrote this in secret, and debuted it between the entree and dessert.

Happy birthday, dad.  (circa December 2007)

PS - This poem contains a TRICOLON CRESCENS!!!!!!  Can you find it?!

Are You Listening?

My father is 60 going on 100

His capacity for worry

Is that of a senior citizen circling the 24-hour news cycle

Frantic

Like a hamster circling a ball

Like a balding hamster circling a ball

Like a balding hamster

Whose son only lives in places that are extremely vulnerable

To unpredictable natural disasters

Circling a ball

Dad                 

You can give me a dozen reasons why I should evacuate for a Category I hurricane

But I will never listen

When do I ever listen?

You can name your ulcer after me if it makes you feel better

My father is 60 and still learning how to use technology

A few years back he learned the difference between reply and reply all

When he sent this message to me, in reference to my first marathon:

“Susan, I don’t want to scrape Sam off the ground in some faraway city.”

Dad I proved you wrong

In fact you cheered me on

Then helped me climb up the stairs for the next three days

My father is 60 going on 23

That is to say he’s rubbing off on me

I’ve always had his ears and his voice

But now I have his astigmatism

His New Yorker subscription

His distrust of all other drivers in the tri-state area

His reluctant admiration of Jewish women

It’s called genetics, people.

My father is 60 going on 18

That’s why for the past two weeks he’s put everything down

Packed the trunk full of emergency supplies

And driven to the edges of the city

Of Long Island sound

To meet the needs of stranded and cold survivors

He said it was harder than seeing New Orleans for the first time

My father is 60 going on and on and on

Most of his sentences to his children begin with

“There was this article in the Times that…”

Or

“I heard on NPR that…”

And end with

“Are you listening to anything I’m saying?”

“Kids?  Are you listening?”

My father is 60 going on proud

He didn’t want me to stop playing baseball

When I got hit with a pitch in 3^rd grade

But not because he cared about how good I was at baseball

I think he knew I would never get good at baseball

He just wanted to raise children
Who understand that in life you will ache

And that is no reason to quit

The weekend his father died

He drove three hours to my sleepaway camp

Because all he wanted to do

Was be a dad

My father is 60 going on 61

Which, he will have you know

Does not mean he’s retired

About two years ago he told me he wanted

To get more serious about screenwriting

I didn’t listen, didn’t think he was really being serious

I told him “ok dad, just don’t quit your day job.”

And then… he… quit his day job.

But it’s alright!

He’s got a working spouse

My father is 60 going on 30 years of marriage

No simple feat          

But they’ve always made it look easy

I don’t know if their relationship was ever in doubt

But if it was thank you for hiding it from us when we were young

And if it wasn’t

Wow

My father is 60 becoming everything we need him to be

Driving mom to chemo and radiation therapy

Holding hands through news good and bad

He’s head chef, chauffeur, husband extraordinaire

Yes my father is a worrier

He’s also a rock

No, he’s a boulder

The kind you lean on in the middle of a difficult hike

The kind you would include in a landscape painting

If you wanted the viewer to feel at home

Are you listening?           

He asks

Are you listening?

Yes, dad             

I heard you explain how to put on a spare

I understand that I should read through the entire rent contract before signing

Dad I’m 17 I know what a condom is

Are you listening?

He asks

Did you remember to call your mother on her birthday?

Do you need anything from me?

Are you happy with what you’re doing?

Are you even listening?

Dad

We pretend to be independent

Children our age excel

At making parents feel irrelevant

But your kids know better

Than to ignore 60 years of wisdom

60 years going on a million

So yes,

We’re listening

Dad

We are always

Listening

Clay Pots

Thanks to whomever took this

The prose just isn't hitting the page right now.  Every time I sit down to write, I'm working on poems.  Some satire, some reflection, some catharsis.  It's a whole new form of expression that I'm sorry to have ignored for so long.

Finding a fitting metaphor is a real treat when writing poetry.  The best ones build themselves - their meanings extend outward as the writing continues, beyond the scope of what you expect them to explain.

I went through five drafts of this poem, including a full rewrite, but the metaphor did most of the hard work.  It's a piece about my relationship with my younger sister, who turned 21 in September (!?).  I sent it to her about a month after her birthday, mostly because I didn't know what I wanted it to say.  It still doesn't say most of what it should, which would sound like an extension of this:

"Hey, I know I've been a pretty difficult big brother most of your life, and I'm sorry for that.  Even though our relationship has been challenging, you're my sister and I love you."

It should not take 21 years to say that, but that's how long it took me.  Maybe I just needed to find the right way to say it.  Maybe I'll stick with this poetry thing a while longer.

Clay Pots

One of us must have been adopted

And it was probably you

Because I have dad’s voice and mom’s hazel eyes

And her brother’s brown hair

Though luckily neither of us inherited

Their unbearable senses of humor

But we both got

Grandpa’s gritty stubbornness       

As kids it was like

Two rough ceramic pots rubbing

Grinding on contact

Chipping and dulling one another

But I was older and taller

So I raised your self-esteem up over my head

And then dropped it

And not by accident.

Just to see how many shards

You’d make when you shattered

Before I learned to know my anger

Feeling bigger was all that mattered

Like when I used to call you stupid

For not knowing all 50 states

I think I teased you into learning them

Sculpting you with childish hate            

But I’m learning

That you are not ceramic

Because clay doesn’t grow stronger

Doesn’t unbreak

You are not solid and delicate

But liquid and opaque

You are not clay but ink

My mistake

Has been to think

That every time I knocked you over

You crumbled beneath your brother

But you just spilled a little bit

Then stubbornly recovered

Pouring ink

Forming blots

That from a distance

Look a little bit like courage

And a lot like persistence

And from above they look like confidence

And up close they look like art

And I

Am finally learning

How to appreciate art

I’m finally learning

To handle ink when it’s wet

That’s why this poem reads like tribute

But still tastes like regret

And it would sound like an apology

If my pen was not so weak

But at least now I’m learning

How to make ink speak

It’s been two weeks

Since you turned 21

This poem started as a gift

Though the ribbons have come undone

Like all our past attempts to change our friendship’s tack

Some bowls are made to fit

And others just don’t stack

But I’m learning

That love is not a sequence

Of broad artistic gestures

It’s not one perfect sketch

Or a collage of silk and feathers

It’s fraying leather

It’s ice sculptures melting

And then getting out the mop

It’s knowing how fast to spin the wheel

And knowing when to stop

It’s sloppy

It’s crumpled drafts and crossed-out lines

It’s chalk on a sidewalk

And pastels that dull with time

I’m learning that love

Has no design

And that’s fine

Maybe there’s no blueprint

On how to be a good big brother

But I promise

For the next 21 years

I’ll try to be less stubborn