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User Rating:
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10.0
/10
(5 votes)
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That my parental units showed no sign
of affection in public was a product of the era,
the stifled fifties, when married couples,
my own units included, slept in separate beds.
My existence belies that separate state.
Nonetheless, there was a discomfort
in physical display, unlike today, when juices
and viruses are spread with joyous abandon.
Even the much touted sixties were but dim flames
compared with hooking-up, which is the mainstay
of youth today. Or is that Larkin's voice I imitate?
I saw my mother attempt to kiss my father, once—
O'Hare airport, nineteen and sixty-three.
He recoiled, and that was that. But here I am,
and bravo to closed and locked bedroom doors,
though, not always locked, as I unwittingly discovered
at the tender age of six, much to my father's fury
(my mother wore a rhapsodic smile. Go dad!) .
Had he a pistol by his bed there would be a chiseled stone
which reads: "Here lies Hanque, his timing was off."
Their lack of affection in front of us, their offspring,
well, who knows what that meant.
But I absorbed that sense of inhibition. I can be cold.
Dad's scowl haunts me. Spooky, shades of Hamlet.
Despite that, I know touching is one of God's gifts.
Did He not extend his hand to earthly Adam,
thereby endowing us with life, is that not the example
to be followed, and not heroic self-containment?
As I hand my son the reins I let my hand fall on his.
I don't care if he flinches. As I sit with my daughter
and youtube I put my arm around her shoulder.
This is good stuff, this touching. I like it. A lot.
When someone reaches out to me I reach back, and quickly.
Those outstretched arms do not come often.
I will say it plainly, again, I need to touch and be touched.
My heart beats hard. I am not my father's son.
-
(The reference to Larkin is from Philip Larkin's poem, 'High Windows.')
Hanque O . . .
| Submitted Date |
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Monday, May 25, 2009 |
| Submitted Date |
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Monday, May 25, 2009 |
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Comments about this poem (A Product of the Era
by
Hanque O . . .
) |
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Linda Hepner (7/13/2009 1:45:00 AM)
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I admire your honesty. So much emotion is packed in your tight words. Lucky kids to have you, but don't be surprised, they too may react unexpectedly. I felt so touched by your openness about wanting to touch and be touched - you have learned a human lesson and must feel sad that your parents didn't have that natural pleasure, hiding it away behind closed doors.
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Fay Slimm (6/8/2009 8:49:00 AM)
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Just caught up with your work and glad I did - - love the final explanatory phrase - - - ' I am not my father; s son' - - - so many things can be overcome by touch - - and you describe the fifties era so well I was there with you....... good one and a more than ten 10 + ++ from Fay...
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surya . (6/7/2009 2:29:00 AM)
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very beautifull and meaningfull. i am left with a hangover
posted10
surya
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Anjali Sinha (6/3/2009 11:56:00 PM)
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a lovely poem
but those dad's scowl haunts me too
spooky indeed-Hamlet reincarnated
humour beneath those chills
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Cindy Kreiner Sera (5/26/2009 3:31:00 PM)
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A cold chill down my spine as with this you have described my parents as well, You are fortunate being able to reach out and touch. Guess many of us can relate to this humorous albeit sad write.
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Francesca Johnson (5/25/2009 5:29:00 PM)
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We learn from our 'parental units' and choose whether to be like them (or not, as the case may be) . This poem has a mixture of humanity, some comedy, a pinch or two of light sarcasm and a lot of love. Amazing stuff, Hanque.
Fran xx
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