Father Speaks of Poetry
Telling me how one of mine doesn’t get
really good until the last four lines, when
the poem makes you think of bigger things.
Since retirement, he’s been reading poetry
of the T’ang dynasty and writing his own,
so, he says, he sees more now. I see him as a boy
bent over these same T’ang poems which talk
of love, honor, epic battles, the snow-white
of a plum blossom, the jade-green
of a baby bamboo stalk. Vision shifts —
he’s starved, war-weary, watchful
of the Red Guard’s gun threatening his brother,
who threatens back as they commandeer
their way onboard a boat, set to flee.
No dreaming of plum blossoms...
The poem, he states proudly, is like a picture.
I agree, the last line of my poem evokes the first.
Ah yes, he says, good writing is like life,
one big circle. The end always comes back
to the beginning, reminds you of bigger things.