His father, singing

This is a poem by the Welsh poet, Leslie Norris. He has done two readings at BYU while I've been here. I missed the first one, but went and watched the DVD that was made of it. The second time I was able to be there to listen to him. His language is beautiful and sometimes when I'm reading or listening to it, my breath pauses and stills in my chest for a moment. The ultimate is listening to him reading his own poetry and hearing the lilt and plum-curled lift of his voice. I remember him reading a poem about Christ that was pretty daring and very contrary to the traditional (Christian) view of the Savior. I haven't been able to find that poem online, which means I'll probably have to buy some of his anthologies--which are super expensive. I should do something romantic like weave baskets from dental floss to pay for them. He died just recently. A great poet.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Leslie Norris.

His Father, Singing

My father sang for himself,
out of sadness and poverty;
perhaps from happiness,
but I'm not sure of that.

He sang in the garden,
quietly, a quiet voice
near his wallflowers
which of all plants

he loved most, calling them
gillyflowers, a name
learned from his mother.
His songs came from a time

before my time, his boy's
life among musical brothers,
keeping pigeons, red and blue
checkers, had a racing cycle

with bamboo wheels. More often
he sang the songs he'd learned,
still a boy, up to his knees
in French mud, those dying songs.

He sang for us once only,
our mother away from the house,
the lamp lit, and I reading,
seven years old, already bookish,

at the scrubbed table.
My brother cried from his crib
in the small bedroom, teething,
a peremptory squall, then a long

wail. My father lifted from
the sheets his peevish child,
red-faced, feverish, carried
him down in a wool shawl

and in the kitchen, holding
the child close, began to sing.
Quietly, of course, and swaying
rhythmically from foot to foot,

he rocked the sobbing boy.
I saw my brother's head,
his puckered face, fall
on my father's chest. His crying

died away, and I
read on. It was my father's
singing brought my head up.
His little wordless lullabies

had gone, and what he sang
above his baby's sleep
was never meant
for any infant's comfort.

He stood in the bleak kitchen,
the stern, young man, my father.
For the first time raised
his voice, in pain and anger

sang. I did not know his song
nor why he sang it. But stood
in fright, knowing it important,
and someone should be listening.