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12 August 2019 “Unfamilied”

I’m going to take up my courage and begin, from time to time, sharing poems I wrote nearly ten years ago. This group of poems is loosely collected under the title Brothering. I’ll explain why after the poem. Writing poetry about a painful experience can create a catharsis for the poet; however, it may be too difficult and even unpleasant for others to read. I suppose this poem falls in that category. But you know me. I’m not one to shy away from the difficulties and disappointments that everyone experiences. So here you have it . . .

Unfamilied
                        
                                                            Pater familius
                                                                        neither father, nor well known
                                                                                    unfamilied
                                                                                                unhomed

                                                We two emerged the greener shoots
                                                            sprouted from more fertile seeds
                                                                        rooted firmly, and certain placed
                        
                                                            A promise made
                                                            One man to his son:
                                                                        “I will take you there
                                                                        You have been good and deserve to go”
                                                                        (a journey you would never know)
                                                            because a father’s promise may not be so . . . and so . . .

                                                You waited once, fishing pole in hand
                                                            and net to catch them
                                                Father in full flight to Saskatchewan, though you stood like iron
                                                            a boy of faith – and the man trying not to lie
                                                            you, the only son of his fading line

                                                You waited twice, fishing pole in hand
                                                            net resting on damp ground
                                                a familiar watch, you hoped nothing would go wrong
                                                the man gone and farther gone
                                                            an elsewhere father, a prize not won

                                                You stood a third time absent a farewell
                                                            no pole, no net, a young man now
                                                            with seed of your own to root and grow
                                                                        let him go
                                                                        let him go

                                                Let him go unfamiliar, unfamilied, truly gone
                                                Let him gnaw on the un-fathered bones




Background
Yes, you guessed it: this poem is based on personal experience. My only sibling, my brother, Paul, died in July 2010. I suppose like all close relationships, I will never totally integrate this loss. What to do? For me, the most difficult events of my life seem to typically find their way into poetry. So it is here. Paul doesn’t die in this poem; rather, I am recalling a series of repeated incidents in his life – multiple disappointments. 

Our parents, as you have surmised, if you read “Remembering Flight” [part 1 and part 2], were deeply immersed in an aviation business. One part of the business was organizing flights to Canada for gentlemen (no ladies expressed an interest) to practice their fishing skills. I’m sure you can guess the promise that was made to Paul. The rest of the poem speaks for itself.

Exploration 1: If you can bear it, recall a time in your life when a parent, close relative, or friend gravely disappointed you. Does the incident still sting? Is it possible for you to forgive the person?

Exploration 2:  Is it all right for a parent to disappoint a child when the disappointment could have been avoided?

Exploration 3:  Is it acceptable for a poet to use deeply personal subject matter in her work?














Comments

  1. Now that you mention it ...
    I had a cousin, deceased just this year, who was 15 years my senior. He was born here on this farm, in a log cabin. His father is from whom I purchased the farm in 1971. I was 21 years old.

    My cousin and I were friends, as well as family; he taught me many things, that in the past, fathers would likely teach their sons and daughters. For instance, how to fish, hunt, drive, and appreciate the great outdoors; he taught me empathy, especially in a history context i.e., about things/people in the past; how people lived, etc. He taught me how to think about the big picture. Good stuff.

    He and I talked about buying the farm together, but he always complained he didn't have any money; never enough money. He worked for Firestone Tire & Rubber and worked long hours. He was a pilot and was an airplane mechanic when he was in the Army in Korea during that war. He was married and had three children; about elementary and middle school age.

    His wife had emotional issues. His wife didn't share his love of the outdoors, least of all his love for Minnesota and 'uphome' what he, and my mother, reverently called this area of the state. We never went to Minnesota that we didn't refer to where we were going, as 'uphome.'

    His father made it known to either me or the family in general that the farm was to be sold; they had moved into Roseau and he wasn't farming it anymore, having been working for a nephew, drilling water wells. I had just learned I wasn't to be drafted for Vietnam and had money saved for something undefined; so I had $1500 burning a hole in my pocket.

    Cousin didn't have any money he said; and I had some money and other people were interested in buying the farm, so I felt the urgency of, at least throwing my hat into the ring so he'd know we were interested -- and the next time I drove to cousin's house, to press our cause, there stood a D-8 Caterpillar in his driveway--that he BOUGHT to repair and sell.

    I lost my patience with it all. I drove uphome (600 miles) and found my uncle at a jobsite where he was working in town. I told him I wanted to buy the farm to keep it in the family and he didn't hesitate, he said, "I suppose you'll want to draw up the contract this afternoon." I was flabbergasted. He didn't defer saying he owed it to his son; as the other two didn't want it.

    However, that moment of decision on both our parts, cost me dearly as its ripple effect devastated my relationship with my cousin forever, and likely my uncle's relationship with not only his eldest son, but his wife-- my aunt--as well, even though she had lost her love of the place once the kids were grown and gone and they had moved to town. Things were never the same; and to his last few months of his life he hated me and made no bones about it and went to his grave with it.

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  2. Thanks Steve! Your story supports one of my most unwavering conceits: every narrative, without exception, is a story about going home. Home can be several places at once for some of us; populated by kin and ancestors; furnished with D-8 Caterpillars and other memories; situated in landscapes as varied as our personal imaginations; as dear as our most unpronounceable wishes; where making a good past is as important as shaping a good future.

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  3. Deep gratitude to both WWriter and WChild for taking the time to craft such eloquent reactions/responses to "Unfamilied." Particular thanks to Steve for his willingness to share a deeply personal remembrance. Often, a poet wonders whether her poetry has simply taken wing into the void, never to be read or heard of again. So gratifying to receive observations, and dare I say, significant feelings related to this work.

    I hadn't thought about home as I wrote this poem, but you are both right in identifying that aspect of "family," and those special places "uphome." But lest we romanticize these aspects, let's recall that family and home are two of the key factors in trauma and tragedy; for where there is great love (or an expectation of love), great pain often follows.

    Thanks so much for writing. JP Savage

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