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My Dad Speaks to Me…

March 12, 2007 by David Gordon

 

MY DAD SPEAKS TO ME THROUGH THE PINE NEEDLE

I FIND IN HIS OLD COPY OF PROUST

by Harvey Lillywhite 

 

The slow owl of my soul had closed his eyes.

It was Dad’s life I lived in, not my own.

Visits court-ordered for every weekend,

Words dwindled to dead batteries; surprise

Dissolved from the hours; and simple darkness

Filled the hollow goblet I drank from then.

 

With a quick involuntary howl I

Open my eyes and laugh out loud today

When I turn the page in his old hard-back

Proust and find the petrified pine needle

Left to mark his place back five hundred moons;

How fifty years I’ve been pushing him out

 

Of my body, to rescue him, from hate.

Now, fat old man myself, I understand.

Below the knobbed hoof that hooked this needle

To the tree, the brittle fetlock is wrapped

Still in delicate tissue, hornet’s-nest

Gray, then the graceful seven-inch curve of

 

Joined legs the f hole in a violin

Makes, down to the pen-point sharp as an owl’s

Beak—quillless pen you could surely write with.

This tweezers, this caliper, this compass

Flashed me back to the sad patio he

Imposed on me: Saturday in Shadows,

 


Sunday in the Gloom. There he lounged all day

On turquoise and pink nylon straps criss-crossed

On the collapsible aluminum

Frame, a drab green army surplus blanket

Beneath him, the square plastic bolster that

Propped him up, reading his Walton’s Angler,

 

Reading his way beyond the everything-

Gone-wrong. He feared the complex divinity

Of clutter that life is made of, impure

Completely unsatisfactory stuff.

Today I read the page he marked and go

A page ahead and hear the owl calling

 

To the moon in the pine and know exactly

How to answer that vanishing question.

No doubt now he’s Piscator in Sussex

Angling with Izaak for Shelsey Cockle.

Maybe now he’s feeding like his trout, clear

And purely in the swiftest streams on the

 

Hardest gravel spawning in that great autumn.

Perhaps I’m his next life, what he’s becoming.

And far off in the tumble downriver

My sons swim on for the me I’ll never

Know. Wherever he rests, may the linen

Seem pure white and smelling of lavender.


 

Filed Under: Harvey Lillywhite.

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