Sharon Olds’ Father


I’m leafing through The American Poetry Review
and I come across Sharon Olds with five
(5—count ‘em—5!) poems about her father.
And there’s a bio note mentioning her new book
of poems, “The Father.” I can’t imagine
writing a poem about my father. What could I say?
That he came here with his five brothers, leaving
behind his parents and sisters in Pico, Italy.
That he bought two lots in Providence, building
a house on one where he raised seven children
and growing tomatoes on the other. Or I could
tell about working with him tying tomato plants
to supporting stakes. How we worked together
in silence. His silence Italian. Mine. American.
Or would you want to know about his going to
the corner store every night after supper
to play cards with his paisans? How he brought
back delicious-looking cakes for the next day’s
work and school lunches. Which were always gone
by the time I got up to go to school. A book?
I couldn’t even write a poem about him.





Tabled


It was an epiphany.
I know, I just can’t say that.
I have to show it. Well,
look, listen. I’m sitting
in my cubicle when
I’m suddenly overwhelmed
by a sense of loss.

If I were an ancient Greek
I would have run naked
through the aisles shouting
Eureka! I have lost it. (Or
does it mean I have found it?)
But I’m not. Nor am I
An Ancient Mariner. No,
I’m an ancient programmer
staring at my computer
terminal reflecting
on this: I never
played enough
ping pong.





You, Singular


Come climb a tree with me
Sing me a song
You can agree with me
Both of us wrong.

You can make fun of me
I hope you do.
There’s only one of me.
How many are you?

You can bring joy to me,
My lady and master.
Be Myrna Loy to me.
I’ll be your Asta.

Make this a coup for me— 
De grace or d’etat.
Let it be new for me,
Not tired or blah.

Come here and stand by me.
Give me a minute.
This ode was planned by me— 
Planned with you in it.





Poetry in Motion


Just look at that beautiful star
exclaims my wife, pointing haphazardly
at the northeast quadrant of that inverted bowl
we more prosaic souls call the sky.
Which one, I ask, showing off. Betelgeuse?
Alpha Centauri? Polaris? That one, there,
right over the telephone pole. I try to explain
to her that my star over the telephone pole
is not the same as hers. But parallax
is best consummated in daylight
between consenting adults. I try again.
Do you mean Sirius, I ask, pointing out
the bright star in the constellation Orion.
Get serious, she laughs, and I know this will be
a night to remember. My wife has made a joke.

And you have made a poem! I would have her say.
But she doesn’t. And I haven’t. And the stars,
the stars spin as one around the Pole.
And all of us—the stars, my wife, her joke,
the telephone pole and me are hurtling
inexorably toward that final equation,
that final and bottom line.