December 2017
Robert K. Johnson
choirofday@cs.com
choirofday@cs.com
Born in New York City (in Elmhurst), I lived in several different places there but have memories only of The Bronx (off Fordham Road). Then my family moved out "on The Island"—to Lynbrook, where we stayed till I graduated from Hofstra (then a College). Several years after my wife, Pat, and I married, we, plus our two children, settled in the Boston area and have remained there (except for my daughter, Kate, who has lived in Manhattan for quite a while). I have been writing poetry since I was twelve (many moons ago).
Author's Note: After being published individually in magazines, these two poems were reprinted in BLOSSOMS in 1975. I began seriously writing poetry in 1953/1954. But I was a painfully late bloomer. The good pieces I wrote were hit-and-miss amid much weak work. A teacher-advisor I had at Cornell U. told me not to teach because I would find no time to write. "Boyhood Creed" proved his advise dead wrong; for the poem was in fact inspired by a class lecture in which the poem's story illustrated how we very much tend to hold onto our first beliefs no matter what. Right after class, I walked home and began writing the poem. "To My Father" was an early example of my finally finding my own voice and style. It has almost no rhetorical flash. Readers often don't even note that the entire poem is a sustained metaphor (more apparent if you change "match" to "exactly like").
Author's Note: After being published individually in magazines, these two poems were reprinted in BLOSSOMS in 1975. I began seriously writing poetry in 1953/1954. But I was a painfully late bloomer. The good pieces I wrote were hit-and-miss amid much weak work. A teacher-advisor I had at Cornell U. told me not to teach because I would find no time to write. "Boyhood Creed" proved his advise dead wrong; for the poem was in fact inspired by a class lecture in which the poem's story illustrated how we very much tend to hold onto our first beliefs no matter what. Right after class, I walked home and began writing the poem. "To My Father" was an early example of my finally finding my own voice and style. It has almost no rhetorical flash. Readers often don't even note that the entire poem is a sustained metaphor (more apparent if you change "match" to "exactly like").
To My Father
Now that you are dead,
all of our meetings match that time
I, after an evening in the City,
sat in Penn Station where I knew,
your night-shift ended, you too would come
to take the next train stopping at
our town.
Tired, staring at the haze
of smoke that dulled the ceiling lights
to a pale glare, I dozed off....
Then roused, not knowing where I was--
until I saw your smoke-grey form
standing a step in front of me.
As though you had expected us
to meet, your eyes showed no surprise.
Nor was there any need for me
to say, "I have been waiting for you."
All we did was gaze at each other,
silently.
Then you sat down
beside me. And we waited, together,
for the train that would take us home.
Boyhood Creed
While kids, my friends and I
firmly believed that if you cut
the rim of flesh that lie
between your forefinger and thumb,
you--instantly--would die.
And, once, as someone passed
his new-bought knife around, one boy--
grabbing too quickly--grasped
enough of the bare blade to nick
that rim of flesh. We gasped.
Yet, when more than his share
of time went by and he still failed
to suck vainly for air:
not joy, but angry bafflement
replaced our mute despair.
Till he--trying to dim
the stares he faced--exclaimed: the blade
must have just missed that rim.
We looked again and, soon, despite
our eyes, agreed with him.
Both poems were printed in my first collection: BLOSSOMS OF THE APRICOT
©2017 Robert K. Johnson
©2017 Robert K. Johnson
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