Monday, October 28, 2013

Tuesday Poem - My Father's Lesson by Eileen Chong


My Father's Lesson

My father pressed shirts in a factory. His long fingers pinched
the edges of collars so they would stay crisp. He laid out sleeve
after sleeve like newborns and decided their sharp creases.
He nosed the tip of the hot iron into each cleft, then squinting,
he seared down the cuffs. He sidled the iron around rows of
buttons. They clattered in protest, plastic beaks against metal hull.
On to the back, where he would coax the cloth into curves. He
knew the power of the pleat: to leave no trace of its giving way. At
the last, the shirt would cling to the end of the board while
my father, with a final burst of steam, squared the shoulders.
Weight-bearing, they must hold no wrinkles.


It is such a great pity that I can't present this poem as it appears in Eileen Chong's
book – 'burning rice'. In the book the text is beautifully blocked, a neat parcel of
unforced, finely-observed imagery. But in spite of not being able to square it all
off in this blog, I like the poem too much not to present it.
'burning rice' was first published by Australian Poetry as part of their New Voices
series. Then it was short listed for the Prime Minister's Literary Awards 2013 and
republished by Pitt Street Poetry.

http://pittstreetpoetry.com/eileen-chong/

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Tuesday Poem - Pantone 185C by Jon Paul Fiorentino



PANTONE 185C

There is a mostly red, cylindrical ashtray. right there. On a
picnic table. Concentrate. It is mostly empty. You will notice
there is one half-smoked cigarette in it. A Viceroy. The red ash-
tray on the picnic table is in the park and so are you.

Does the ashtray belong to someone? No. It did but it doesn’t.
What kind of red is it? You don’t know the name for it yet. It’s
similar to what’s left of the red on your nails. You tell yourself
Pantone 185C. It is Pantone 185C.

Do you want it? You do but you don’t. You don’t smoke anymore
but you want to. Cylindrical Pantone 185C appeals. Why did
someone bring and leave Pantone 185C in the park? What was
that someone thinking? Your first thought is he wasn’t thinking.

But if he was, what was he thinking? Did he think it was too
precise? An emblem of a person he no longer wants to see in
emblems? Someone who had hurt him? He doesn’t like to be
hurt. So he brought it and left it. Emblems, in poems as in parks,
are boring.

You know this. Why are you drawn to it? You are drawn to it
because you look up and there are old women, young women,
old men, young men, children, whole families, half-families in
the park. They all wear little squares of Pantone 185C.


Another wonderful poem from Canadian poet Jon Paul Fiorentino. I had to find out what Pantone 185c was, it intrigued me so below find the link in case you are not a home decorator or something like that.


Pantone 185c is in Jon Paul's new book – Needs Improvement – published by Coach House Books.

http://www.chbooks.com/biographies/jon-paul-fiorentino

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Tuesday Poem - Thoughts of the Father by Philip Salom




Thoughts of the Father
Ku  / Work on What Has Been Spoiled
Setting right what has been spoiled by the father. Danger. No blame rests upon
 the departed father. He receives in his thoughts the deceased father.


It hurts when you know thoughts of the father are in the son
like a repertoire of non-events.

Thinking how the father spoiled the son, the sons
of broken marriages, my own.

Not 'spoilt', something lost, indefinably, gone missing
when he was spoil between them.

Demanding too much of him, bringing home a second
mother in place of the first?

Work I have done wrong? He moves in a film of slow
postures, the strange mime

which adolescents make when practising annulment.
And keeping for themselves

enough to make of the self some stern amazement.
Sons are everywhere spoiling 

their fathers’ art and craft! No blame. Hormones hit
like a room of conscientious

kick-boxers. The brute beauty of vocabulary reduced
to monogrunts and every ing

now sounded un like feints, and blocks, and side-steps
language taken on the forearms.

Years later, I watch him from the airport as he leaves,
know I love him, know he knows it,

but finds it wrong in public, forcing off my arm. To
whom would I pray? 

It is my father who has rowed across my body’s
nine-tenths water, to my son,

in spoiling for the simple life, of his before him, the bones
of my father lie satisfied and said

as thoughts in the son, a setting right after the break
like breath free now of the words

like a hull brought in over water, the river, the rowing,
his breath a repertoire of oar strokes

between the banks of birth and death. Echoes on the surface.
When thoughts of the son are in the father.


We had a Melbourne launch for Notes For The Translators and I was very taken indeed
by Philip Salom's reading of the above poem. And by some strange oversight, some
infinitely mischievous work of the printer's devil, his notes to possible translators had
been left out. So now please find the intended notes below. It is times for them to be
attached to their poem again.

To invest in a copy of this fascinating book please email KitKelen@gmail.com


Notes:
In the mid 90s I wrote a sequence of poems prompted by the Commentaries of the I Ching. In this case, I wrote in response to Ku, the 18th hexagram. Above the poem, as epigraph, I have quoted those selections from the commentary that struck me most closely — in this case having an uncanny relevance to the estrangement from my son in the years following my divorce from his mother. I felt distress and guilt over my son’s changed behaviour and personality, and I could not explain how unlike himself he had become. My son had been loving and extroverted as a child and now he was withdrawn, monosyllabic and sometimes angry; but the divorce coincided with his adolescence and therefore it was difficult to know whether it was the separation, or adolescence itself, that had changed his personality. He was uneasy living with me and then my new partner and eventually moved back with his mother (even though it was she who had initiated the divorce). Still, I felt it was my ‘fault’, that the trauma had ‘spoiled’ him in some way, spoiled as in damage to his psychological state. Then I began to realise that he was far more like my father; they had more in common than I had with either. My father was modest, reserved, even withdrawn, and though he was rarely angry, he was markedly uneasy with his or other peoples’ emotions.

Themes: The above themes run throughout the poem as the main continuity of behaviour, feeling, estrangement and sense of ‘spoiling’ . This puns on spoils as in spoils of war, ironic in this case, as the spoils may themselves be broken, damaged. Another pun on spoil as in spoiling for a fight, expressing wildly, etc.

The nullity, annulment, non-events in feelings, communications, bonds, the sense of things gone, lost, missing, or kept back rather than shown or expressed. The Yin? And if so, then spoiling for a fight is the Yang. Ironic couple.

Adolescence, anger, change (this is the I Ching, after all!), uncertainty, The martial element: fighting feelings, restrained or controlled violence, kicking out at, fighting back, Kung Fu which the boy was learning, also related to Chinese culture.

Repertoire as in learned acts, and behaviours, but also actions, fighting or resisting or defending. Blocks. and later in the poem, the un sounds come as the cruder phonetic/aural/vocalised version of ing verb endings, so fighting would become fightun and how these sounds are like grunts or fighting noises, or blocks (of both emotional and kung fu kind).

The ‘River’, rowing across, Charon, the boatman, the Styx or the waters leading to an afterlife, or the waters between birth and death, parallels here in the metaphor of the body (which is mainly water literally, and the wide water of parentage) and the genes of the deceased father (my father) crossing my body to be expressed (which is ironic, too, as a less expressive form) in the body of a son (not my body but my son’s, ie: the grandson).

And the circular sense of the form in the poem which seems to ends as it began except with the reversal of knowledge (gained?) in the phrase — thoughts of the son are in the father.
This distancing device of the poem and the I Ching makes the poem poised above the personal and the impersonal, which is what I wanted from the poem and is in keeping with my ongoing critique of the too-easy lyric poem.

Two line stanzas could signify: the father and son form, the shorelines of before and after, life and death. The mime of action without words, behaviour without response.

Line Notes on Thoughts of the Father by Philip Salom


It hurts when you know: here the poem (firstly) addresses the poet, but then also addresses the reader, to consider the observation that follows.

thoughts of the father are in the son
like a repertoire of non-events. The son thinks of the father, but in this is a paradox, the acquired acts, behaviours, skills of repertoire – are non-events, ie: seem empty, null, denied perhaps.

Thinking how the father spoiled the son... Refers to father and son of the I Ching epigraph and the formal, distanced sense of definite article and then the change through broken marriages as situation to finally the personal: my own.

Spoil, spoiled as in my notes, plus missing referring to lost and departed, and the bond spoiled...but the son is not spoilt (as in indulged, over-rewarded, etc)

Demanding too much of him, bringing home a second
mother in place of the first? After a broken marriage, the father brings home another partner, a 'second mother' who could be perceived as 'replacing' the first.

Work I have done wrong? He moves in a film of slow
postures, the strange mime

which adolescents make when practising annulment. Here enters the father as lyric subject, and the son denies him by movements, like the above repertoire, but this time movement of adolescent-style (universal!) indifference to a parent through body language.

And keeping for themselves

enough to make of the self some stern amazement.
Sons are everywhere spoiling

their fathers’ art and craft! No blame. This keeping back allows the naive and surprised engagement with world and self, but gives nothing much back to others. Natural (many sons do this to fathers (ironic repeat of spoiling) and not blame-worthy (and this no-blame directs to son and to father).

Hormones hit
like a room of conscientious

kick-boxers. The brute beauty of vocabulary reduced
to monogrunts and every ing

now sounded un like feints, and blocks, and side-steps
language taken on the forearms. Here the movements take the specific form of resistance and violence, of martial arts, (also note the echo of art and craft, but against...) which is a metaphor of what the son is deliberately doing and also learning (perhaps). And a fairly likely echo or association here of martial arts with Chinese culture. Turning ing endings of English words into un - the grunt, the out-breath of hitting, sounding uncouth, as he extends his resistance even to language.

Years later, I watch him from the airport as he leaves,
know I love him, know he knows it,

but finds it wrong in public, forcing off my arm. To
whom would I pray? The major time-shift, the retrospection and assumption of an easing of the above tensions, denials, etc, but not the denial of love shown, still fended off but not fought off... It is now reserve about emotions, and even language. And note the rhetorical question following as an echo of Confucius: When you give offense to heaven, to whom can you pray?

It is my father who has rowed across my body’s
nine-tenths water, to my son,

in spoiling for the simple life, of his before him The sudden realisation that the reserve, simple rather than complex life, etc, of my son is very like that of my father, as if the DNA of my father has moved/rowed across my body (which is a body of water: biologically, symbolically, mythically - and metaphysically?) to my son.
of my father lie satisfied and said

as thoughts in my son, a setting right after the break,
like breath free now of the words, and this knowledge satisfies my father (who is deceased though the poem doesn't say this) and the grandson, a homecoming of tendencies, which make sense, perhaps set right the break (not of bones but bonds) and is breath now, more elemental than complicated words...

like a hull brought in over water, the river, the rowing,
his breath a repertoire of oar strokes

between the banks of birth and death And this is where the feeling, the knowledge, the breath is going, across the elemental water, and again a repertoire of behaviour, of being, in the gap or river of life between birth and death.

Echoes on the surface.
When thoughts of the son are in the father. The echoes are all these insights and overlaps, and recurrences, and of course the repeats in the actual poem of lines and words, such as repertoire, spoil, art and craft, rowing, water... and here too is the final, major, reconciling reversal of the first line - thoughts of the father are in the son which now becomes thoughts of the son are in the father. Where, of course, they have been all the time!