This is another episode of "Poetry? I just don't get it..." A series where I post a poem or group of poems by one author, followed by anything the author wants to say about the work. This time around it's a poem by Andres Rojas. (Other poets in the series can be found on the tab above.)
Last spring, I was surfing the net, looking for poems of a friend of mine, as you do (see the last post of "Poetry? I just don't get it..."), and found a few at Compose. I clicked to the staff page, to see who the poetry editor was, and was stunned to see the face of a friend I hadn't seen in thirty years: Andres Rojas!
In the late 80's I lived in Jacksonville, Florida, and during that time I was lucky enough to hang out with several wonderful poets and artists. One of those artists was Andres. He was born in Cuba and came to the US at the age of 13 (on the Mariel
Boatlift). He is poet, essayist, editor, philosopher, singer/songwriter (watching him play his songs back then encouraged me to start writing my own)...
I followed a link on Compose to his blogsite and
began reading his published poems and immediately wanted to post one here. His
work has appeared in Barrow Street, Colorado
Review, Massachusetts Review, New England Review, and Notre Dame
Review, among many others. For more of his poetry, go to his site at: https://teoppoet.wordpress.com/.
It is how Andy speaks of loss, and its connection to absence, that draws me in. Read the poem, then read the essay, then read the poem again. So many connections in such a short span of time. Illumination awaits.
***
FROM THE LOST LETTERS TO MATIAS
PEREZ, AERONAUT
I imagine what you saw—a boulevard
of moonlight on water, waves
like names on a chart,
your absence, like weather, a given.
My father disappeared
into another country
when I was five—why
not you, a hundred years before?
My first memory is him.
He carries me against his neck,
the beach receding as he walks us
into a life I don’t yet see.
Sometimes I wish
that were the last of him
I kept. Of what’s beyond us,
we know nothing, or we know
enough, the particulars of loss:
sand, the westering sun,
a wind-seized balloon,
the sea.
***
Of
What’s To Come
Being dead means being left behind.
And
being alive comes to the same.
--Gjertrude
Schnackenberg
Ziggy Stardust & The Spiders From Mars |
Seventeen
days later, my friend Shelbey emailed me a writing prompt she had ran into,
"You are an astronaut. Describe your perfect day." Her piece began,
"It takes ninety-two minutes to circle the earth." That's the
International Space Station's orbital time. The ISS is 236 miles high, but
closer to Earth than my home in Jacksonville, Florida, is to, say, Atlanta.
Moving at the ISS's speed, I'd get there in 50 seconds. My friends in south
Florida are hours farther. Of course, these things are relative: the higher you
are, the slower you go, and the longer it takes to go around the earth back to
where you started from.
I
answered Shelbey with a quick, 11-line poem (all of 56 syllables) riffing off
Bowie, "We Know Major Tom's a Junkie," imagining each orbit as a life-cycle:
a quick life, a quick death, followed by another, and another, and another. (I
write about death often; it’s my go-to metaphor for loss.)
Over the next few days I drafted and redrafted the poem, but I felt it had stalled. On February 8, 2016, I happened to read (and copied into my journal) Soren Stockman's "Morning in Wyoming," which had been published almost a year earlier in The Literary Review and which I'd belatedly found via Twitter: "Death will be gorgeous. There is no love / when there is nothing but love." What do we, the living, know about death? Maybe not much, but more than the dead, who don't even know they are dead: there is no death when there is nothing but death, but there’s not much else either.
I turned Stockman's words to my own use: "Death / will not lack beauty / altogether, nor that love / which never takes us with it." Then, on February 16, 2016, I hand wrote a few lines on the latest draft: "I can't tell what you see right now." On the 18th, the 13th anniversary of my father's death (of hepatitis C and cirrhosis of the liver, but more on that later), I wrote, "I imagine what you saw." I'd gone from observing my own limitations to empathy, and I felt the writing shift under me.
Over the next few days I drafted and redrafted the poem, but I felt it had stalled. On February 8, 2016, I happened to read (and copied into my journal) Soren Stockman's "Morning in Wyoming," which had been published almost a year earlier in The Literary Review and which I'd belatedly found via Twitter: "Death will be gorgeous. There is no love / when there is nothing but love." What do we, the living, know about death? Maybe not much, but more than the dead, who don't even know they are dead: there is no death when there is nothing but death, but there’s not much else either.
I turned Stockman's words to my own use: "Death / will not lack beauty / altogether, nor that love / which never takes us with it." Then, on February 16, 2016, I hand wrote a few lines on the latest draft: "I can't tell what you see right now." On the 18th, the 13th anniversary of my father's death (of hepatitis C and cirrhosis of the liver, but more on that later), I wrote, "I imagine what you saw." I'd gone from observing my own limitations to empathy, and I felt the writing shift under me.
Matias Perez |
I
was, of course, using the new poem to address my father in all his absences:
when I was five, he left for the United States; as far as I knew, he had disappeared,
vanished. He thought my mother (pregnant with my sister) and I would get our
exit visas in a matter of days and follow him to the U.S. shortly; I didn't see
him again for eight years. He was 90 miles and a universe away. I wrote him a
few times, and he answered once, but he was not one for writing: I think he
coped with his loss by not thinking about us after a while.
By the time we
reunited in Miami, via the Mariel boat lift, he had become addicted to heroin
and had kicked the habit, taken up quaaludes and alcohol (he was not a good
drunk), and made and spent a significant amount of money as a small-time drug
runner in South Florida. He had a void somewhere in him that could not be
filled, but he did not fail to try: power over my mother, my sister, and me, in
various manifestations; prostitutes; casual drug use over the years; God
before, during, and after both the prostitutes and the drugs, until he was too
ill and had only God left. He could be friendly and entertaining if he didn't
feel threatened, but being around him was like living with a wild bear who
could go into a dark rage at the slightest perceived provocation.
After almost a decade of trying to have any real connection with him, I finally removed myself as much as I could and kept him at bay for the last 14 years of his life. This time I was the one who did the leaving; his death simply confirmed what I had already accomplished. I had mourned his loss already, years earlier. There is no loss, I suppose, where there is nothing but loss, but there's not much of anything else either. Thankfully, I have never been in such a desolation, except through my father.
Mariel Boat lift, 1980 |
After almost a decade of trying to have any real connection with him, I finally removed myself as much as I could and kept him at bay for the last 14 years of his life. This time I was the one who did the leaving; his death simply confirmed what I had already accomplished. I had mourned his loss already, years earlier. There is no loss, I suppose, where there is nothing but loss, but there's not much of anything else either. Thankfully, I have never been in such a desolation, except through my father.
Ironically,
I find myself working on this piece over Father’s Day weekend – ironically
because “From the Lost Letters to Matias Perez, Aeronaut” is not about my
father any more than it is about Matias Perez or Bowie’s Major Tom. While
writing the poem, I was accompanying my mother to her radiation appointments
following a cancer diagnosis and a (successful) partial mastectomy. For several
years I had been preparing myself for the inevitable (I have loss issues, yes;
I do these things), and yet when the time came, I found myself wholly
unprepared for the possibility of her loss. She is in the poem, too, but no one
would know it.
At the same time, I was coming to accept that my last six years of work had not produced a publishable manuscript: despite dozens of queries and contest submissions, despite hundreds of dollars on manuscript consultation fees and entry fees, I was still bookless (and still am, though I now have a nifty phrase to show for my efforts: “It will not be for lack of trying”). I was, though not literally (not even literarily, though there’s hope there), letting go of the expectation I would soon have a first book out and instead girding for the reality of a long, grinding process still ahead, with no guarantees.
At the same time, I was coming to accept that my last six years of work had not produced a publishable manuscript: despite dozens of queries and contest submissions, despite hundreds of dollars on manuscript consultation fees and entry fees, I was still bookless (and still am, though I now have a nifty phrase to show for my efforts: “It will not be for lack of trying”). I was, though not literally (not even literarily, though there’s hope there), letting go of the expectation I would soon have a first book out and instead girding for the reality of a long, grinding process still ahead, with no guarantees.
Of
what’s to come, I know nothing or I know enough. I think I know enough. Most of
us do, of course. There is no wisdom where there is nothing but wisdom. Randall
Jarrell called it pain; I prefer to call it life. And there is no life where
there is nothing but life. Or, as Jarrell also put it, the ways we miss our
lives are life.
***
Andres Rojas |
***
Some Links
The Perils of Poetry/Tedx talk with Andres