Dead Parental Units
by Bill Yarrow
1.
Each death a sonnet, every grief
fourteen lines. Not yours. I refuse
you this one thing. I sat next to you
in the hospital, your mouth open
on one side, your last breath escaped.
I connect you with no other dead
or myself with the other weeping sons.
I am only this son, holding his father's
dead hand, watching his father's dead
mouth. I will not write you sonnets.
Sonnets are boxes. Spaces for pain.
Graves to lie in. Enough of graves.
I save for myself your raw last line.
2.
Another death, another sonnet. Every
grief fourteen fucking lines. Not yours.
I stood next to you in my sister's house,
the family huddled around like reporters
at a tornado. Terrified, we watched you
drown. At dawn, they wheeled you out.
Yes, mothers die and sons are sad,
but I am not one of the many. I am one
of the few who will not write you sonnets.
I'm sorry. Maybe that would have given you…
what? Solace? Satisfaction? Sonnets are boxes
—I mean coffins. You want me to build you
a coffin? How many coffins do you need?
Each death a sonnet, every grief
fourteen lines. Not yours. I refuse
you this one thing. I sat next to you
in the hospital, your mouth open
on one side, your last breath escaped.
I connect you with no other dead
or myself with the other weeping sons.
I am only this son, holding his father's
dead hand, watching his father's dead
mouth. I will not write you sonnets.
Sonnets are boxes. Spaces for pain.
Graves to lie in. Enough of graves.
I save for myself your raw last line.
2.
Another death, another sonnet. Every
grief fourteen fucking lines. Not yours.
I stood next to you in my sister's house,
the family huddled around like reporters
at a tornado. Terrified, we watched you
drown. At dawn, they wheeled you out.
Yes, mothers die and sons are sad,
but I am not one of the many. I am one
of the few who will not write you sonnets.
I'm sorry. Maybe that would have given you…
what? Solace? Satisfaction? Sonnets are boxes
—I mean coffins. You want me to build you
a coffin? How many coffins do you need?
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Author's Note
My father died from mesothelioma in 1978. My mother died from congestive heart failure in 2002. I wrote part one in 1979. I wrote part two in 2013.
A version of this poem appeared in Contrary.
Thank you, Shaindel Beers.
This poem appears in Incompetent Translations and Inept Haiku (Červená Barva Press, 2013).
This poem appears in Blasphemer (Lit Fest Press 2015).
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"I connect you with no other dead/or myself with the other weeping sons."
Perfect.*
This is a wonderful piece of writing. Loved it the first time I read it, and I love it now. Powerful and real in every way.*
Fine work, Bill
Yes, this is very good. Every line so well crafted.*
"I will not write you sonnets.
Sonnets are boxes. Spaces for pain.
Graves to lie in. Enough of graves.
I save for myself your raw last line."
An amazing piece. Strong writing, Bill. I absolutely connect.
you write beautiful poems about death, Bill.
Excellent! Fave.
Thanks, Amanda, Joani, Gary H, Gary P, Sam, Jules, and Mia, for your gratifying comments. Much appreciated!
Bill, I, too, like these lines, like these two connected poems. I've read them several times and as a reader, have to pull a lot of story in. They can be interpreted several ways. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but I am especially tickled by the rebelliousness of each one being 13 lines, not sonnets, not 14 fucking lines, and the paradox of them not being boxes or coffins, but the text is still shaped as so - the mother's slightly more curvaceous, the father's neat and straight. Rebellious, unboxed, unfinished grief. *
When last on a sonnet I grieved or not.
Nice work.
I read this when it was published and thought it was hardishly elegant, i.e., elegantly hard. *
Thank you Emily, Daniel, and Ann for your kind words.
"but the text is still shaped as so - the mother's slightly more curvaceous, the father's neat and straight."
Astounding and fascinating observation, Emily! Thank you for it.
Having heard your talk about Frost, for one, I think it's extraordinarily interesting that you break rules, refuse to do ten beats /fourteen lines, refuse to be like all sons in predetermined, metered grief, but of course wind up with your own form, inescapably contained in a box, a room of loss. All this is secondary, but intrinsically related to the powerful painful words.
Thank you, Jim, for your astute and thoughtful comment.
"refuse ... but of course wind up with your own form"
Yes, my early stab at invented (vs. inherited) form. As Blake said, "I must create my own system or be enslaved by another man's."
And so we must.
No form is not an option, but whose form is.
Sometimes I think the neighborhood is getting run down, but your house always looks spiffy. *****
Powerful! Death and its sorrows linger when there's no pretty box to put it away in. *
Whew! This is a tear jerker Bill. Beautifully rendered in gorgeous language. A fitting tribute. *
Jake, Tina, Michael-many thanks!
Thanks for this. *
Such spare and raw words can only come from down deep. I connected almost violently
With this amazing work *****
Thank you, R-C-V and Charlotte. I'm very pleased this poem worked for you.
This is excellent writing and incredible, powerful art. Thank you for being the kind of creator who can conjure such words and feelings from the depths. Moving and stark, yet human to the core.
Super-good writing, Bill. Emotions, power...powerful emotions.
Super-good writing, Bill. Emotions, power...powerful emotions. *
Thanks, Darryl and Foster!
Unsparing and precise, this helps with many types of "mourning," Bill.
*
Excellent poem on so many levels. Intense and honest thrash at death. *
This slammed home for me - just rich and honest, that lonely rage of the inevitable. Beautiful.
Thanks Crabby, Brenda, and DJ.