FATHERHOOD
He would rather
Paint pictures or
Play piano than
Raise a child.
He would rather
Stay a child –
Be free of all responsibilities –
Than raise a child.
He would rather
Run freely towards
Far away places
Than raise a child.
He would rather
Avoid the future
Until its all that’s
Left to do.
CREATIVITY
No man can resist
The call of creating –
Spreading their seed
On blank canvases.
No man can resist
The sound of accolades
And the praise of seductive
Strangers.
No man can resist
Finding dissatisfaction
In all his work. That is just
How he is.
THE WOMEN
These lusty, lost boys.
So in love with all the
Girls – their toys. So often
Praising the wonder
Of their bodies and breasts
But often failing to
Understand what lies
Yonder.
Hand slips down waistband.
Rub or Tug with childish glee.
Clean up with Kleenex.
And happy you will be.
(based on Lydia Davis’ short story ‘Therapist’)
Why do I think the way I do?
Because of you I
Think I do.
Because you make me think
I do. I think I think
Because of you.
I’ve always thought I
Think I do. Because
Of you I’m sure I do.
The others think I
Think so too. But I’m sure
I do because
Of you.
(based on Lydia Davis’ short story ‘The Mother’)
There she is, pointing at me, poor girl,
Disappointing daughter, a woeful
Sight – these are her words
For me. This is how it is.
I long for times we were close with
One another. When notions of
Happy family panned out
To utter satisfaction.
Now she tells me the songs I
Sing aren’t sweet enough.
The meals I cook are
Not to her liking.
Please, mother, stop
Undermining me!
Barbed words
Tear me up.
Games she plays
To cut me
Down to
Size.
Ecstasy ecstatically pleases me
In these frequent bouts of flight.
Happiness haphazardly visits me
When I walk stark into the bright.
Pleasure potentially excites me
At the cusp of sensual delight.
Yet disappointment continues to visit
No matter how hard I try.
Born one after the other in
Imperfect sequence.
These girls exist as
Reminders of a man’s
Failure.
A man is not a man
Until his wife
Bears him a son.
That is the way
Of the father.
These daughters filled
With daddy’s disappointment
Carry resentment for
Each other: The girl who
Could have been a brother.
All our poor girls – now women –
Will toil away, leaving
More daughters behind,
Their husbands disappointed
With no successful successors.
(based on Lydia Davis’ short story ‘City Employment’)
Imagine the city you live in
Filled with all
Those characters
You see everyday:
The eccentric seniors
The fleeting strangers
The homeless stragglers.
But they are not
Who they are.
They are employees
Of a corporation:
The City Council.
Not quite actors,
But not the people
They appear to be.
Like yourself,
They have a job
To do. To fill
A role or two.
To play their
Part and pave
Their way.
(based on Lydia Davis’ short story ‘Cockroaches in Autumn’)
They are so like us, despondent
And quick to scatter at
First sign of danger:
A moving hand,
A rolled-up newspaper,
A falling foot.
Disgusting as they are to us
We cannot but help
Respect their stubbornness
To live. Their
Determination
To Survive.
What better way to
Prove you live
Than not
To die?
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