His hands shook so wildly he could not feed himself,
and as I watched his wife I wondered:
Is it possible to feed someone and not love them?
The love was part of the food.
Something in Neruda made him zigzag around “To Sadness”
(a la tristeza)—
All about black wings and longed-for darkness
Tristeze, necesito/tu ala negro—
And wild scissor-lines around “Goodbyes”:
And, newly arrived, I promptly said goodbye…
left everywhere for somewhere else.
de todas partes a otra parte…
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There is a loverly poem by Seamus Heaney called the Follower – Although my father died just 8 weeks ago – I love to read it because he ( my Dad) had Parkingson’s – I was so proud of his liniage – real working class lad yougest of 9 – a journyman carpenter and joiner – made good – in the British social classes – but in his later years he was diminished in his kind gentle magnanamious nature but never angry or depressed.
C
Thanks for sharing The Follower, Chris. Lovely poem, lovely reflection on your father, too. S.