[1270] To A Sad Daughter
Guest poem sent in by Ameya Nagarajan <ameya_nn@>
All night long the hockey pictures
gaze down at you
sleeping in your tracksuit.
Belligerent goalies are your ideal.
Threats of being traded
cuts and wounds
--all this pleases you.
O my god! you say at breakfast
reading the sports page over the Alpen
as another player breaks his ankle
or assaults the coach.
When I thought of daughters
I wasn't expecting this
but I like this more.
I like all your faults
even your purple moods
when you retreat from everyone
to sit in bed under a quilt.
And when I say 'like'
I mean of course 'love'
but that embarrasses you.
You who feel superior to black and white movies
(coaxed for hours to see Casablanca)
though you were moved
by Creature from the Black Lagoon.
One day I'll come swimming
beside your ship or someone will
and if you hear the siren
listen to it. For if you close your ears
only nothing happens. You will never change.
I don't care if you risk
your life to angry goalies
creatures with webbed feet.
You can enter their caves and castles
their glass laboratories. Just
don't be fooled by anyone but yourself.
This is the first lecture I've given you.
You're 'sweet sixteen' you said.
I'd rather be your closest friend
than your father. I'm not good at advice
you know that, but ride
the ceremonies
until they grow dark.
Sometimes you are so busy
discovering your friends
I ache with loss
--but that is greed.
And sometimes I've gone
into my purple world
and lost you.
One afternoon I stepped
into your room. You were sitting
at the desk where I now write this.
Forsythia outside the window
and sun spilled over you
like a thick yellow miracle
as if another planet
was coaxing you out of the house
--all those possible worlds!--
and you, meanwhile, busy with mathematics.
I cannot look at forsythia now
without loss, or joy for you.
You step delicately
into the wild world
and your real prize will be
the frantic search.
Want everything. If you break
break going out not in.
How you live your life I don't care
but I'll sell my arms for you,
hold your secrets forever.
If I speak of death
which you fear now, greatly,
it is without answers.
except that each
one we know is
in our blood.
Don't recall graves.
Memory is permanent.
Remember the afternoon's
yellow suburban annunciation.
Your goalie
in his frightening mask
dreams perhaps
of gentleness.
-- Michael Ondaatje
|
Found this poem in a friend's house and thought it was a
beautiful expression of the relationship between a father
and his daughter.
Biography:
Michael Ondaatje was born on September 12, 1943 in
Colombo, Ceylon (now Sri Lanka). The son of Mervyn
Ondaatje and Doris Gratiaen, prominent members among the
inhabitants of what once comprised Ceylon's colonial
society. Mervyn Ondaatje was a tea and rubber-plantation
superintendent who was afflicted with alcoholism. Doris
Gratiaen performed part-time as a radical dancer,
inspired by Isadora Duncan. As a result of his father's
alcoholism, OndaatjeÕs parents eventually separated in
1954 and he moved to England with his mother.
Ondaatje was educated initially at St. Thomas College in
Colombo, Ceylon. After moving with his mother to England,
he continued his education at Dulwich College in London.
Between 1962-64, Ondaatje attended Bishop's University in
Lennoxville, Quebec. He then went on to obtain his B.A.
at the University of Toronto in 1965, and his M.A. at
Queen's University, in Kingston, Ontario, in 1967.
Ondaatje began his teaching career at the University of
Western Ontario, London between 1967-71. Today he is a
member of the Department of English at Glendon College,
York University in Toronto, Ontario, a position he has
held since 1971.
Ondaatje currently resides in Toronto with his wife,
novelist/editor Linda Spalding, where they edit Literary
Magazine. During his career Ondaatje has received
numerous awards and honors. He was awarded the Ralph
Gustafson Award, 1965; the Epstein Award, 1966; and the
President's Medal from the University of Ontario in 1967.
In addition, Ondaatje was the recipient of the Canadian
Governor-General's Award for Literature in 1971 and again
in 1980. Also in 1980 he was awarded the Canada-Australia
price and in 1992 he was presented with the Booker
McConnell Prize for his novel The English Patient.
a good web resource is www.postcolonialweb.org
Ameya
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From: ehartlin <ehartlin@>
This is a beautiful poem, and I enjoyed reading the biographical sketch
of Michael Ondaatje. There is, however, an error in the list of his
honors and awards - there is no such institution as the University of
Ontario.
Ed.
From: "Priscilla Jebaraj" <prisci25@>
yes, it is a beautiful poem on fathers and daughters (i just have to
read it to my dad!), but it also fits minstrels' recent string of
"advice" poetry. "don't be fooled by anyone but yourself" -- now, that's
cool advice.
priscilla