February 2007

This afternoon, over lunch, my son Eric
( recently 21} told me that he'd be performing tonight in a Poetry Slam at the Britannia Arms.

A Poetry Slam.

First thought -- poems are quiet, soft, the opposite of Slam. Think Yeats, Frost, Sandberg, and others. Reflective and meditative images. Thoughts that make you catch your breath.

Next thought -- of course, poetry is  Slam!
Think Elliot, Thomas, Ginsberg, Ferlengetti, et. al. Images that are in your face. Startling. Awakening. Thoughts that make you catch your breath.

A Poetry Slam? How peculiar.

But that's what a poem is supposed to do.

Slam Thought Slam Image Slam Memory Slam Emotion Slam Imagination Slam Fear Slam Ecstasy Slam Regret Slam Hope Slam Values Slam Celebration Slam Mourning Slam Ahah!

That's a poem!

My son is a poet? How could that happen?

Or, as I think about it, how could it not happen?

Poetry is easy,  for those who just read poems.

Poetry is breaking rocks in the prison yard (or prolonged and painful child birth) for those who write poems.

As far as I know, we don't have any published poets in my family.Aspiring poets? Certainly more than me; probably many more.

Eric could be a poet. Eric should be a poet. Eric must be

Eric

As I think about Eric's poems here's what I remember:

My ear on her belly

I heard your first poems

Sounds with a rhythm,

Patterns that rhymed

Beat by beat

I recall every moment

From our first imaginings

Through your first beginning

Our toes in the sand

A fan overhead

Fresh linen at noon

A pause between dives

Waves cross the threshold

Many months later

I hear your new voice

A cry in the night

The sound of your breathing

Your gulp on Anne's breast

Her loving reply

As you were growing

I lost touch with my ear

Though we'd frequently touch

And often I'd hear

Much later, I wonder

Which poems did I share

Which poems did Anne hear

What poems reached your ear?

Now, two years later, we're both writing new poems.