To a Sad Daughter

March 23, 2006 at 11:56 pm 10 comments

Michael Ondaatje

Listen

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.

Okay, okay, so I'm getting sentimental in my old age. But I really like this poem. Poems to Daughters are an interesting micro-genre in themselves. There's Yeats, of course. And this gritty Carver version:

It's too late now to put a curse on you – wish you
plain, say, as Yeats did his daughter. And when
we met her in Sligo, selling her paintings, it'd worked –
she was the plainest, oldest woman in Ireland.
But she was safe.
For the longest time, his reasoning
escaped me. Anyway, it's too late for you,
as I said. You're grownup now, and lovely.
You're a beautiful drunk, daughter.
But you're a drunk. I can't say you're breaking
my heart. I don't have a heart when it comes
to this booze thing. Sad, yes, Christ alone knows.
Your old man, the one they call Shiloh, is back
in town, and the drink has started to flow again.
You've been drunk for three days, you tell me,
when you know goddamn well drinking is like poison
to our family. Didn't your mother and I set you
example enough? Two people
who loved each other knocking each other around,
knocking back the love we felt, glass by emptly glass,
curses and blows and betrayals?
You must be crazy! Wasn't all that enough for you?
You want to die? Maybe that's it. Maybe
I think I know you, and I don't.
I'm not kidding, kiddo. Who are you kidding?
Daughter, you can't drink.
The last few times I saw you, you were out of it.
A cast on your collarbone, or else
a splint on your finger, dark glasses to hide
your beautiful bruised eyes. A lip
that a man should kiss instead of split.
Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Christ!
You've got to take hold now.
Do you hear me? Wake up! You've got to knock it off
and get straight. Clear up your act. I'm asking you.
Okay, telling you. Sure, our family was made
to squander, not collect. But turn this around now.
You simply must – that's all!
Daughter, you can't drink.
It will kill you. Like it did your mother, and me.
Like it did.

– Raymond Carver 'To My Daughter'

And I suppose if you really wanted to, you could include those glorious Eliot lines in Marina. (O my daughter!). But the Ondaatje remains my favourite, blending as it does such a wealth of real feeling – love, humour, warmth, sadness, defeat. What I love about Ondaatje's poetry is the way ever so often such a beautiful little gem of a line will peek through ("ride / the ceremonies / until they grow dark"; "I'll sell my arms for you / Hold your secrets forever") and that talent is on full display here.

For more commentary on the poem, see Minstrels.

Entry filed under: English, Michael Ondaatje. Tags: .

Parting Rashmirathi

10 Comments Add your own

  • 1. ducly  |  August 16, 2006 at 7:35 pm

    I’m a big fan of Ondaatje

    Reply
  • 2. Duc N. Ly » poetry in motion  |  August 16, 2006 at 7:39 pm

    […] audiopoetry.wordpress.com […]

    Reply
  • 3. falstaff  |  August 16, 2006 at 11:12 pm

    Duc: Glad you liked the poem – stay tuned for more Ondaatje. And thanks for the mention on your blog. The reading is not, unfortunately, by Ondaatje – the voice in the recording is mine.

    Reply
  • 4. pō’ĭ-trē » Bearhug  |  August 18, 2006 at 11:04 pm

    […] To a Sad Daughter – in which he captures so many nuances and revels in the details and his love for his daughter and Bearhug – just this fleeting moment and surge of love. Both wonderful poems. […]

    Reply
  • 5. ducly  |  August 29, 2006 at 3:57 pm

    Thanks for the clarification Falstaff. You did a great job reading it. I thought it was Ondaatje himself.

    Reply
  • 6. sri-Lankan  |  May 22, 2007 at 1:02 am

    Hey..you a sri-lankan?

    Reply
  • 7. Annamari  |  June 26, 2008 at 6:24 pm

    I feel that, among his novels, Divisadero captures the same flow of feelings, rythm of thoughts. What do you think?

    Reply
  • 8. varali  |  July 10, 2008 at 3:54 pm

    There’s a genre of poems to/on fathers as well. Amichai has a short, lovely one. But this is my favourite:

    Those Winter Sundays

    Sundays too my father got up early
    And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
    then with cracked hands that ached
    from labor in the weekday weather made
    banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

    I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
    When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
    and slowly I would rise and dress,
    fearing the chronic angers of that house,

    Speaking indifferently to him,
    who had driven out the cold
    and polished my good shoes as well.
    What did I know, what did I know
    of love’s austere and lonely offices?

    Robert Hayden

    Reply
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  • 10. dunlop tennis racquets uk  |  January 5, 2012 at 7:14 am

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