Sometimes the best therapy for an unmoving pen is to read.
I got home last night, exhausted. The work wasn’t really that hard this week but I am recovering strength, having just returned from my personal Covid experience a few days ago.
In my mail was the latest copy of the Last Stanza Poetry Journal with a poem I wrote (and sent the day after their deadline) among its 200 pages. Across the book fold, an interview with Dr. Michael Salcman, the poet who shared the last issue’s highlighted poem. The reward given is a choice: a printed interview in the next issue or a cash prize. I am glad he chose the interview.
In it he shared his favorite piece, a sonnet he calls “A Lamentation of Swans.” I liked the piece, but my brain was already pulling me out of it and into an idea building on his. We poets do have a tendency to to this.
I feel like a tease, but that is NOT the poem I wish to share with you today—perhaps another time. I felt I should send that one for first option back to the Last Stanza Journal. We shall see what happens with it.
The poem I would like to share today is one inspired by conversations with my sister Annette and another piece in the Last Stanza titled “Faces,” by Theresa Timmons. I won’t share her piece here because I would encourage any interested parties to get their own copy of this great periodical (available in print and electronically on Amazon (Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Issue #10: Who are You?)
From conversations and the poem, I know both had tomboy tendencies, Annette was the best baseball player I had to play with regularly and Theresa had her own experiences seeking approval from her father.
With those in mind, my muse was inspired to write a second piece this morning, and “Daddy’s Girl” was born.
Like I said at the beginning, sometimes the best therapy for an unmoving pen is to read. Can’t wait to read the rest of the issue!
Daddy’s Girl
She wants to go fishing,
to trade stories as barbs are armed,
cares and lines
cast out upon the lake—
hers with a yellow and red bobber,
his skimming upper waters
with the latest shiny lure.
He fishes alone,
three poles and two seats
that were to be shared with a son,
fighting a rock bass into the skiff,
celebrating Junior’s catch with a Pepsi from a styrofoam cooler,
someday maybe his first snort,
a great rye he is destined to drink alone with his regrets.
She wants to count the seams
of a fresh leather ball,
hurling it with all her might
to slap at the weathered glove,
hoping to hear a pained “Yalp!”
as he pops it out to his left,
shaking the mitt free,
praising the frozen rope
she fired across the yard.
He bounces old baseballs
off the worn boards of the hay barn,
tosses it high in the sky
toward dreams unfulfilled,
steadying his hands to receive
it back without blessing,
rearing back yet again
to refuse it,
to pitch it back
into the face of god.
| Copyright © 2022 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there. |
Reading’s fine, Maik, especially when it leads to a Wednesday occupied by some writing from you! Do all the reading you need to supply all our Wednesdays.
ReplyDeleteI seldom if ever read the commentary to a poem. I did not this time either. There was no need to. This poem is an excellent presentation on loneliness, wanting to belong, and how we too often do not communicate obvious needs. The father wanted a son. The daughter wants a father. Both want a companion to share common interests. A wonderful poem that clarifies the themes of belonging. Once again, a great job well-presented and well done.
ReplyDeleteI’d be interested in Maik’s appraisal of how close your reading accords with his intent. I’m not suggesting they don’t accord. I just don’t know, but wonder.
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