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. 



3 comments:

  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.

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  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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