Son Poem by Tamir Greenberg

I ask nothing
that Nature, in its grace, can't
yield, and even in that,
I wish for a commonplace thing.

In my ignorance, I imagined poetry
was an end. I thought:
From the lines of the poem I'll build a house
where I could abide when my heart felt bitter.
A great loneliness was my lot
until I grew to understand
that words, as beautiful and vital
as they may be - how could I comfort them
in sorrow, or share their joy?
How could I cradle them gently in my arms
and bury my face in their warmth?

A son! If only I was granted a son!
The miracle of an innocent gaze, his tiny palm
supported in mine. For, his sheerest eyelash
would be purer than any rhyme!
My son. Mine. A dark toddler.
A complete human, with his own reason and will.
My finest love I will devote to him!

We'll sit together in the park,
listen to the hum of grasses striving to rise.
Look, I'll whisper. Here we are
and all things are beautiful and deserving.
I won't contemplate the days yet to come,
which of time's evils or riches
would be his share.
I won't venture to guess which trains he will take,
in which country he will find his peace,
if he will fight with the blood of his heart
for lofty principles of justice and beauty
or if he'll be plagued by a crude lust for possessions,
if his fate will grant him true love, a home,
or if he will be killed in a war.




I'll wait until he falls asleep, put my ear
to his crib, and if it happens that from his sleep
he utters some prosaic word,
I'll heave my chest
with the pride of a young father, boasting:
See how lovely is my offspring,
my proxy upon the earth.
Is there something finer than this bridge
that Nature has unfolded for me
to delude, if only momentarily, the void?