No hand of man
could plant by plan
the symmetry of
a random scattering of daisies.
-Helen Wolfe Allen
I admire my grandmother's poetry. If anyone, she is the writer who I try to emulate. It is nothing short of tragic that the only light her poems have seen since she died is in a small book, collected as a Christmas present from my aunt to our family. It is at the same time, however, an incredible blessing that I have that book. Her poems are one of my greatest sources of inspiration.
As such, anything I write here, and the blog itself, is ultimately dedicated to her.
With that, a poem.
A Pressed Petal
(for Nana)
We never really met,
you and I.
I must have been, to you,
a barely opened seed
And you, to me,
a wilting flower,
Your petals all falling,
waiting for the frost.
I (the now I, with roots
and leaves and fruit)
Would have liked to see you
(the then you,
In full bloom—a lilac
in your spring).
But since, by some irking
requisite genetics,
Our paths can’t cross
as such,
I must thank you deeply
for your foresight.
Your poems, pressed and dried
like fragile petals
Between the pages of
a well loved book,
Still carry your scent,
and it’s May again.
(If only your withered eyes could
see my reciprocal.)
2 comments:
Dear John,
What a lovely remembrance of my mom. She was a formidable force in her time. She was in love with the world, and sometimes angry with the creator.
She was not afraid to fight for what she believed in. She loved all of us very fiercely.
She was deeply troubled too; manic depressive. She could be so happy, and the next minute, so depressed.
I too wish you could have known her in her prime. You are obviously entering yours. I am so proud of you.
Love,
Uncle Brian
Dear John, I believe she knows, as you said you would like, the person you have grown into being, and I am sure she is smilingly delighted that you took up the pen where she left off.
Love, Auntie Mary Ann
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