For My Daughter On Her Tenth Birthday Poem by David Rowe

I'm not sure what your mother has told you
but, in honor of your reaching double digits
(& since I can't be at your party) :

I want first of all
to urge you to learn
how to turn
weakness into strength:
A baseball
pitcher by the name
of "Three-finger" Brown
threw with so much topspin on the ball
thanks to his mangled hand
he made the Hall of Fame.
At a Midtown
Manhattan party,
somebody inadvertently danced
on Dizzy Gillespie's trumpet
so he played it & made it—
the bent-up instrument—
his signature.
One of the most advanced
styles of kung fu
imitates the movements
of a wino.
And because singer Sam Cooke
couldn't hit the high notes,
he developed his inimitable soulful yodel.

Even more than a person's eyes,
his laughter reveals his real character.

Shun people who would try
to pass depravity off as sophistication.

Whatever else you pursue career-wise,
I can advise
you to pick up a trade or craft:
it will both keep you grounded
& from ever going hungry, dear.

I've found
it's a profound
mistake
to recycle a failed romantic relationship—
there are very good reasons it didn't work out
the first go-round.

If the motive for something in this world
completely escapes you,
it's probably money.

For better or worse, casual sex
is a contradiction in terms
for people like us.

Poverty, loneliness & sobriety
(hard to abide as they are)
often beat the alternatives.

Granted, I'm typing this on a laptop while
listening to my iPod—still, I'll
encourage you
to always bear in mind
how the Rastamen of Jamaica
pronounce "technology"
"take-'way-nology."

Beauty like yours is tremendous power:
wield it responsibly.

Another rule of thumb:
something has become
an unhealthy addiction
once it's begun
to interfere
with the reason
you're here
on earth.

When it comes to alchemy
I'm neither an adept
nor so inept
that I'm unable
to at least identify for you
two mother lodes of lead
for your crucible:
(1) suffering & (2) breath.

Well,
for a score of grown-up reasons,
I'm not in your life right now,
but just
as butterflies
manage to migrate
from Maine to Mexico
every season,
I'm trusting
this blown birthday kiss
of a poem
must wing
its eventual way to you...