Anatomy of a Poem

Anatomy of a Poem

Around this time every summer, I find myself reflecting on my dad. He passed away on June 21, 2014, the summer solstice—the longest day of the year, after a very long goodbye.

For a decade, he was ghostfather, a shadow of the man who graced my life with so much love and exuberance. The last time I saw my father in his fullest self, he was laughing, telling stories, and commenting on the feast I’d prepared for his visit. It’s a party! he’d say whenever we presented him with a home-cooked meal.

Then, in the summer of 2004, a stent surgery erased the man I once knew.

Yet, his memory lives on. My dad taught me how to relish even the smallest pleasures: crocuses peeking through a layer of freshly fallen snow, design elements in a frost-dusted window, aroma of Grandma’s soup simmering on the stovetop.

He viewed the world with an artist’s eye. A technical illustrator by trade, he enjoyed watercolor painting and the occasional pen and ink drawing in his spare time.

I didn’t inherit my dad’s talent for producing such art, but I like to think I’m learning how to paint with words.

Which brings me to the anatomy of a poem.

I’ve been circling a poem (several poems, really) about my mother for weeks, but for some reason, I keep coming back to my dad.

My father. Of feather. Fiercely protective of his young.

That line sent me straight to Google University, where I discovered all sorts of interesting facts about mothering in the animal kingdom. If I’m going to write about my father (of feather), I need to do some research.

There’s another line I’m circling: Wolf mother— prefers to leave nurturing to the pack.

Maybe these lines will remain in the compost pile waiting to show up in a future poem, I don’t know. Sometimes random lines just hang around in my psyche, seeding something else entirely.

Here’s what emerged in the inquiry, a rumination of sorts. How does a highly sensitive child thrive in a landscape largely absent of what we call mothering?

mothering has myriad languages

I’m fluent in only one: the crack
of a wooden spoon on the rails of a wooden crib.

Refuge sought in other mothers. A grandmother,
her garden, simmer of supper, surrogate
mother.

Godmother Rose, sultry
summer nights on a wraparound
porch, rush of river, flicker
of firefly.

Aunt Connie, fried baloney sandwiches on mismatched
plates, meatballs tossed across the room into a cast-iron skillet.

My home: furniture covered in plastic.