Notes on fathers and sons

August 2010
Holding On

my son is playing the piano
for my dad
over the phone
invisible electromagnetic radiation of the wireless phone
the thin chariot facilitating our
tenuous yet irrevocable connection
and I encourage and acknowledge him
as a good father should
wanting to model for my 78 year old dad with Alzheimer's
how he could have been with us


Saba Ronnie

my son is playing the piano
for my dad
and I am showing him off:
"see... see the beautiful thing
that has come forth from me"
and it is all normal and natural
except that I am in Sydney
and my dad is in Sandringham Gardens
an old aged home in Johannesburg
"it sounds lovely" he says "very good."
and I, hyper aware of this constructed grandpa I build
for the boys, or perhaps for myself
from silences and absences
from a few words over the phone,
wanting there to be the solidity of dynasty
rather than the flimsiness of the orphanage
do my duty
and quietly grieve.
___________________
early 2010?

My dad seems to be going to his grave
as mutely as he lived
without saying the things I've waited all my life to hear
so I must turn to avinu shebashamayim uvaaretz
our father that is in heaven and in earth
the father of all sons and fathers
to hear the words I long to hear

______________________
2009?

I am playing soccer with my sons in Diamond Bay reserve, Sydney
as my father played cricket with me in Waverly, Johannesburg
as my sons perhaps will play with their sons in San Francisco or Tel Aviv
and I look at them in the fading dusk
wanting them to have the same sweet memories
and I am them and they are me
all fathers and sons endlessly
and the Lord of soccer looks out of my eyes at their me
the Lord of hosts

I am playing soccer with my sons in Sydney
as my father played cricket with me in Johannesburg
as my sons perhaps will play with theirs somewhere
and I look at them in the fading dusk
and I am them and they are me
all fathers and sons endlessly
and the Father of All looks out of my eyes at their me
______________________________

april 2010

Connection

I am talking to my father in South Africa
via an intangible connection
and I am the thin line stretching between him in the old age home
and the boy in the bed beside me
long eyelashes shading
ruddy red cheeks
my father tries to dredge up words to say
Alzheimer's has made even bigger holes in the net
he uses to scoop the slippery thought fish up with
he finds a big familiar one and presents it to me
"how are the boys?"
Is it only packets of electrons
whizzing through the ether that connect us?
I talk upbeat phatic gestures
into the great silence that beckons and defeats
then stop
always I will grieve for a dad and try to become one to myself and the sons I have been given

when he wakes up in the morning
I might tell him I spoke to Saba last night
and he will say "Oh" and then, politely
"How is he?" before turning back to his life
without waiting for an answer
_________________________

My passivity seemingly grows,
til it is so large
I cannot locate it, or blame it
on any other than myself
_________________________

When someone is showing someone else
around his hometown
(whether by birth or adoption)
they show it off as if they made it all themselves
"this is the north head
this is the south
this is Mandela's house
and Montefiore's windmill
my apartheid museum
my pacific ocean
my heroic six day war"
and there is something very good in this
that we surge towards sharing familiar delights

see May 30th of diary for rest of poem to transcribe