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I wrote this poem a few days ago. I have a black and white photo of my grandfather on the side of my fridge...real cool picture...with my father as a five year old standing beside him. The picture always inspires me.

To a Grandfather Gone

And he is a tree in Tivoli,
His arms spread to a blue Copenhagen sky,
Pigeons, in a cloud of wings,
Spread before him
Like the uncertain followers
Of a forgotten dime-store Christ.

This man with my blood in his veins,
Collecting his life in Polaroid squares
To share with the Mi’kmaq woman of his breaking heart
Back in a river valley home
He no longer remembers
With the ease he should.

And he plays the violin in Piccadilly
Amid the manic movements
Of disinterested passers-by, the fountain angel
Looks on, Anteros; love returned
For the violence of strings
And the beauty they possess
In the one-two stop of time
Their music brings.

And in Dresden, before the storm,
He stands stark still against the landscape
Of a city destined to dust.
The smile on his face belies
Both his innocence,
And his après la guerre disgust.

And on my fridge, these many years hence,
He stands, bare-chested,
Children at his feet, woman at his side,
This man I never knew,
Looking into the lens
With wisdom untold
Behind world-wandered eyes,
A Polaroid square capturing
The life he soon forgot.


©2007

Hi Sebby ~

This is a very moving word picture of your Polaroid grandfather whose breath you never knew.


~ Lizzy

lizzytysh wrote:This is a very moving word picture of your Polaroid grandfather whose breath you never knew.

Wow, Lizzy. That comment sounded like a great poem. I loved it.


Oh, and thanks, by the way.