I realize I began my last post with the same stated sentiment…but some funny things happened on the way back to this forum. The hilarity that ensued included an immediate example of societal trends at large and various bumps in the grind of that funny little game known as divorce. Chuckle.
What I offer now instead of big talk claiming that I’ll post to the blog frequently, is a stylin’ backlog of items to post. What, no applause? Yeah yeah. Well I’m already at it, as multiples have already been posted. So I’m back. And I’d love it if you were, too.
And not all of it is so wordy as we all know I can (tend to) be.
So with that…
For those who might be new to this blog o’ mine that uses the prism of being a dad as a means to address things ‘n’ stuff, or to those who perhaps previously read it but had not happened to read the namesake poem, or for those who care to read it again, the end of this sentence links to a poem I wrote waaaaay back in 1994 that lent its name and sensibility to this blog: Fatherhood Poetic.
For those who may not have been fathers the last time you checked in, here, or those whose babies were so brand new the topics might have lacked resonance before, I invite you to read this posting before anything else.
For those who’d like to cut to the tale of my vasectomy click here.
Here’s a poem, heard recently on NPR’s “The Writer’s Almanac”:
My Father’s Corpse
by Andrew Hudgins
He lay stone still, pretended to be dead.
My brothers and I, tiny, swarmed over him
like puppies. He wouldn’t move. We tickled him tracing our fingers up and down his huge
misshapen feet — then armpits, belly, face.
He wouldn’t move. We pushed small fingers up
inside his nostrils, wiggled them, and giggled.
He wouldn’t move. We peeled his eyelids back,
stared into those motionless, blurred circles. Still,
he wouldn’t, didn’t move. Then we, alarmed,
poked, prodded his great body urgently.
Diddy, are you okay? Are you okay?
He didn’t move. I reared back, gathered speed, and slammed my forehead on his face. He rose,
he rose up roaring, scattered us from his body
and, as he raged, we sprawled at his feet – thrilled
to have the resurrected bastard back.
“My Father’s Corpse” by Andrew Hudgins, from American Rendering: New and Selected Poems. © Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2010.