“Sherman made the terrible discovery that men make about their fathers sooner or later… that the man before him was not an ageing father but a boy, a boy much like himself, a boy who grew up and had a child of his own and, as best he could, out of a sense of duty and, perhaps love, adopted a role called Being a Father so that his child would have something mythical and infinitely important: a Protector, who would keep a lid on all the chaotic and catastrophic possibilities of life.” -Tom Wolfe, The Bonfire of the Vanities
Dear Reader,
If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been or where your weekly dose of poetry had gone (I’ll assume that’s about two of you) then I am happy to inform you that my absence was not for lack of love for you, the reader, but because on June 15th my life changed forever.
I am a father.
A tired one at that.
My wife and I welcomed our son into the world a little over two weeks ago and as you can imagine our days have been a non-stop roller coaster of wet diapers, sleepless nights, and pleasant contentment.
This obviously means your weekly dose of Field Notes will slow to a crawl but I hope that you reader, of all people, will understand that real poetry is first lived and then written down. And so that’s exactly what I’m going to do, live a lot and write a little.
I have some exciting news related to an upcoming project, but I’ll save that announcement for a later date. Nothing trumps the birth of a child.
For now, here are a few scratches from the midnight watch. Surprisingly, these sleepless nights have been full of random lines of peculiar verse, the kind you’ll find in the head of a tired dad rocking his son to sleep.
When everyone goes to sleep the muses come to play.
Enjoy!
FIELD NOTES #13
Late night bottles.
Soiled cotton rags.
The sun finds me awake,
my child fast asleep.
𑁍𑁍𑁍
I never knew the city
could get so quiet.
Laying against my chest
your heart beats with
all the tender fullness
of a life yet lived.
Savor the quiet now
or you'll lose your little heart
to the sudden surge of noise.
𑁍𑁍𑁍
Wrangling you to sleep
I feel like a shepherd
herding sheep—
you're as stubborn as they come.
I wish you loved the moon
as much as you love the sun.
𑁍𑁍𑁍
I wonder if Father Sky
is jealous of Mother Earth:
For all his infinite embrace
he'll never know your face,
the shape of your lips
or the warmth of your embrace.