Had I known of things impermanent

[Violet]

This is an older poem of mine, but maybe it's the right time for it, given Sherry's poems (I didn't know her, and only know now her one poem that's just resurfaced, as it were)... This poem is in some ways about the timeliness of things... It was written to my mother... many years after her death...


Had I known of things impermanent

I would have thought more to stay. Only I was
young. And your mother was there. And we needed
to get her home. And anyway, we had no way
of knowing when you'd die.

ii.

We awoke that morning
to a very light snow,
a fine white dusting
coating the lawn, the road, the
frozen lake beyond...

iii.

By the time your mother died, I'd been
avoiding her for weeks.
Still, I think we both knew that my presence
would have made her departure
untenable.

Only your father I watched. Slowly, his
breathing arrested. Slowly, I could feel him
slipping away. As if it were my presence
that had made his departure
tenable.

Is it only in dreams
that I'd caressed your hair
with lavender?

v i o l e t

[piñata heart]

This is lovely Violet, and I thank you for it.

My favorite:

Is it only in dreams
that I'd caressed your hair
with lavender?

It's like a poem within a poem. If I had a fortune cookie (or a Russian nesting doll), this is what I'd like to find written inside.

-ph

[Violet]

... thanks p.h., that's a nice image in itself... finding it inside the smallest Russian nesting doll...

v i o l e t

[Cate]

Hi Violet

Your title makes me feel *uncomfortable, it strikes to close to home. The first loss of a parental figure is shocking no matter your age. Before that the idea of them being impermanent is just some type of wild theory - you might know in your mind that it's a possibility but until it actually occurs it doesn't seem quite believable.

I liked how you used and in the first stanza, it adds this feeling of desperation. It also reminds me of the buts, and if onlys you hear at a time of loss.


*I couldn't think of a better way to phrase what I meant, but I think it's something a good poem should be able to do ...

[Violet]

Hi Cate,

Yes, I know what you mean about this title perhaps making one feel uncomfortable, and it being too true, in a way... this has me thinking of another poem of mine, about my father's death this time...



The heart greatest


that unending

left still wanting

avoiding

what part of me
knew.

the song I’d heard
playing that day

(the same
recording I’d bought
back when
Mom was ill)

The Book of the Dead
I was carrying; the Poinsettia
beckoning

(like one last scarlet
dream)

all knew
of your impending
departure



2004