"Poetry Midterm"

In selecting seven pieces for this assignment (all pieces were taken from An Introduction to Poetry by X.J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia, 9th Edition), I pondered the many forms that existed. There were poems from father to son, son to father, mother to daughter, daughter to father, and so on. I wanted to have a common thread among the poems, for the sake of continuity. Consequently, I have selected seven poems spoken by a child to its parent. Despite a wide variety of sentiments, all shared one theme: the deep and complicated love between child and parent.

The first poem, "My Papa's Waltz," by Theodore Roethke (Page 18) presents a clear picture of the young man's father, from line one. "Whiskey" on the father's breath is one of many clues in appearance that mold a rough image of this uneducated, blue-collar worker, possibly a European immigrant, as indicated by the "Waltz" in the title (Line 1). These traits are not necessarily related. They merely exist at once in the father's character. Additional signs of roughness are his hand, "battered on one knuckle"(11), and "a palm caked hard by dirt"(14). This is a man who has probably known only grueling labor. His few escapes likely consist of a drink or two when he gets home from a tough day and maybe something good on the radio. This idea of the father as an unrefined oaf is further reinforced by his actions. His missed steps injure the child's ear, while the father and son's "romping" causes the pans to slide "from the kitchen shelf"(6). As he "beat[s] time"(13) on the child's head we see very clearly that he is quite brutish and careless with the child, and oblivious to his environment. All these factors make the boy's mother very uncomfortable. We can see the disapproval in her countenance, which "could not unfrown itself"(8). She is obviously upset but, strangely, does nothing to interfere with the horseplay that grieves her. This suggests that the waltz is enjoyable for not only one, but both parties. One might wonder why it is that the boy so delights in these moments. This is obviously a crude, boorish man. He probably doesn't flush. He may even smell bad. Are these reasons to love one's father less? Certainly not in the eyes of a small boy. This young man's father may not be the most sensitive or perceptive man around, but he still seems to be a hero in the eyes of his son. Finally, the son recalls these words: "Then you waltzed me off to bed/ Still clinging to your shirt"(16). After reading this poem, it is clear just how unconditional a child's love is.

"Facts," is by Thomas Carper (Page 218), is another poem spoken by son and about father. There is one great difference, though. While the father in "My Papa's Waltz" may be somewhat boorish, this man is simply callous. This man shows no humanity to his son at all. In fact, the speaker even confesses to us, " 'Never say, "I Love You,"' I was told"(6-7). The father exhibits total lack of emotion. He seems (to me) to be a horrible, ignorant man. His philosophy that " 'Only fags cry' " is one held by macho imbeciles the country over yesterday and today. Sadly, the events in this poem could have taken place fifty years ago or last week. Many men (and some women) still abide by this inflexible code of behavior. They still feel, like the boy's father, that "It is important that a son should know/ His role, and should be told the woman's role." These are, as the title suggests, facts. They are not to be challenged; they are to be revered. Another "fact" of existence for this boy was that emotions were unacceptable. When the child does submit to these natural inclinations he is berated by the father, who says in mockery: "Only fags cry". In the following line, I find an interesting choice of words. The speaker says "The first/ Time that he said this to me, I misheard" (9-10). The first time that he said it. This hints at a life full of daily abuses such as this, an existence full of intolerance and devoid of love. Although he misunderstood his father's words, the boy still knew his crying was the "worst of possible betrayals" (11-12). This man's disapproval and disappointment still means everything to the son he spends his life emotionally oppressing. The love and admiration existed. Towards the end, though, it seems apparent that a lifetime of such treatment finally hardened the boy towards his father. And it has probably hardened everyone else around him, as well. It is very difficult to love a person like that. As the son tells us himself, "when my father shall die,/ No man will weep because only facts cry" (14).

Dick Allen's "Night Driving" (Page 276) shows how the myths and fables we're told as children affect our adult lives enormously. When we're young, our parents tell us a lot of things. They tell us about the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus, and dogs going to heaven, and happily ever after. Perhaps some of these fabrications exist to relieve children's concerns about the unknown, to protect them from the "real" world, or simply to shut them up. Even though their intention is to make "the world come closer" (14), all too often those stories fail to prepare us for reality-- for the facts of life. Once we find out the truth, realize the way things really are…we are crushed. Love is not a fairy tale, bad things happen to good people. We may even sometimes revert to those beliefs as adults. Like the subject, we often choose to deny the reality of our lives in favor of more pleasant (however fantastic they may be) notions. In this case, it's a row of headlights father explained to son as being "cat eyes". Did this damage the child? Not necessarily. But the son appears to hint that the lies go beyond this. Perhaps he is upset at his father for protecting him too much, or feels that it was unfair to be "lied" to. At first it's easy to be angry with those who let us live with those notions. But eventually, we realize that their intention was not to fool or betray, only to help us through life.

"Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden is a touching piece that I really relate to. The son is plagued by guilt for all the years he took his father for granted. The image of that man up early in the "blueblack cold" (2) on his only free day is powerful. All his actions are geared towards making life just a little more pleasant for his family. That image is even more touching when you consider the idea that "no one ever thanked him"(5), his son "spoke indifferently to him"(10), and despite his best efforts his home was still plagued by "chronic angers"(9). Perhaps his family lacks closeness because of the hectic work life he leads. This may be the reason the son mistreats him so. Now all that callousness towards his father, the thanklessness, has come back to haunt him. He realizes the enormous task that raising a family is. He sees how hard it is to make life work, and is able to feel the respect and admiration for his father that he should have all along. Many parents suffer silently. They go about their duties quietly, doing the things we do for the people we love. Many times they hide their grief so well that we are never the wiser to their trials. Children are self-involved. All they know is their own happiness. But there comes a time in all our lives when we realize the great sacrifices that were made for us, and how much we owe to those that raised us. As the speaker says, "What did I know of love's lonely and austere offices" (13-14). Unfortunately, the realization is often too late for us to let them know…but sometimes we get lucky.

"Digging", by Seamus Heaney (Page 428) is yet another poem between two men. This poem shares a similarity to "Those Winter Sundays" because of the speaker's emphasis on the hard work of his father. This struggle reaches back even to the previous generation, along with the tradition of potato farming. When the speaker says that his father scattered "new potatoes that we picked/ Loving their cool hardness in our hands," he intends many things by it. Most importantly, it refers to the gifts that parents leave their children, the benefits in life they wish their offspring. They will work tirelessly to achieve this. The father in this poem stooped in the field for twenty years to provide security and upward mobility for his son. Now, in the son's recollection, he finds that he can not match his father or grandfather in that realm. This tradition had been lost. Life-draining labor such as the one endured by his ancestors is no longer necessary. He briefly reflects, "I've no spade to follow men like them." We know he is sorry he cannot do the same. But his advantaged position has given him the ability to make new advances for his family, for the sake of his own children. He has his own talent, his own creative force, and his own legacy in his writing. "Between my finger and my thumb/ The squat pen rests./ I'll dig with it" (29-31).

The final poem I chose to analyze is Sylvia Plath's "Daddy." This complicated piece details the love-hate relationship between a daughter and her father. As said in the book's footnote, an Electra complex to be precise. The girl fears her father tremendously, but simultaneously thinks he is "a bag full of God" (8). Her grief and confusion lead her to try to kill herself at twenty, unsuccessfully. As an adult, she even finds another version of him that she can truly have, "A man in black with a Meinkampf look" (65). She entered into this torturous relationship because of her "love of the rack and the screw" and endured it for seven years. When she finally garnered the strength to rid herself of this man, she rid herself of that image of her father as well. She herself says, "If I've killed one man, I've killed two" (71). This poem is a vindication, a liberation…it is a form of closure for this troubled young girl. I find it hard to state anything that isn't already crystal clear in the writing. This poem is a marvel to me in its clarity, simplicity, and beauty.

So we've seen seven poems spoken by very different people, at various times, in unique locations. All from a child to their ancestors. All with one thing in common, one universal message: the love between child and parent is nothing if not complicated.