Monday, April 7, 2014

To My Precocious Granddaughter, All of Twenty Months

The only soul who speaks English to you, I wonder 
How much of it will stick in your little head— 

Precious, I hope it doesn’t end up Greek once 
You happen to read my poems after I’m dead. 


  1. "happen to read" ... ouch. But probably true. My parents never read my poems, and I'm sure my children haven't. I've caught my granddaughter, on the other hand, reading a poem written for her to a friend. One has to toss back a shot of tequila añejo to feel a remotely similar glow in one's chest.

  2. I could be worse, Joe. Quite a few years back, a friend of mine mentioned he had an uncle who wrote poetry; since the village where he lived was only a half hour from Meligalas, I asked him to arrange a meeting with the poet. As things turned out, one thing led to another and we never found the time to meet him or get a chance to read his poetry. Time passed and one day I asked my friend about his uncle and he told me had had died some months prior. Couldn't we at least ask his widow and son to let us have a look at his work? What work? They thought that anyone who would spend his time writing "poems" in a notebook had to be whacko and they threw the whole lot into the fireplace without having read a single one.

    Nin--that could be a description of my granddaughter!

    Thank you both for commenting.


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