Living Poetry With My Old Man

I sat outside on a deck with my father. He spied an ant on the railing and began reciting a poem about ants, “Departmental,” by Robert Frost. I was cooking us fish for supper and went to the yard to retrieve some rosemary for seasoning. When I returned, he recited the poem “Rosemary” by Marianne Moore. He recited assorted Psalms and Proverbs during dessert. When I remarked how members of the National Therapeutic State think people are sick if they prefer being alone, my father recited a line from Emily Dickinson: The soul chooses her own society and then shuts the door. We then segued into Donald Trump and he recited “Ozymandias,” by Shelley, certainly the best poem ever written about Donald Trump. I mentioned to my father about the dog book I was writing and he picked up an anthology of poetry and read “Dream On, by John Tate. This poem contains the line: The family dog howls all night,/ lonely and starving for more poetry in his life. My father found a collection of Japanese tankas and read a few aloud. We marveled at their beautiful economy and extremely private nature. Somehow we started talking about anti-war films and I said my favorite was Paths of Glory. My father asked me if I knew where the title of that film originated. I said I didn’t know. He then recited a line from “Elegy Written in a Courtyard” by Thomas Gray: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

In the last year, poetry has become very important in my life. It has directly led me to meet wonderful new people. It has directly led me to finding a unique voice to report the non-poetic story of what I witness in probation meetings. It has directly led me to bond with my father in a way I never imagined.

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