In poetry and the creative spirit, ‘Daddy’ speaks to his grandson, Ed

November 08, 2006 11:48 pm

— EDITOR’S NOTE: Stories containing verse are best viewed in the print mode. To do that, click on the “print this story” option in the upper left portion of this page. It will display the story in its entirety with formatting as intended by the author.

By Mary Claire Mahaney
Fifth of a 6-part series

Last year in an edition of The Herald (“Big Apple links grandson, granddad,” June 27, 2005, page A7) I wrote about how our older son, Ed, reminds me of my father, John Knapp Mahaney. Daddy was born in Sharpsville in 1910 and died in Warren, Ohio, in 1975. Ed was graduating from college last spring and was taking a job in New York City, a city my father had worked in as a young man. Struck by that and other similarities between the two men, I wrote some verses in my father’s voice, as I imagined he might speak to Ed.
In week five of Advanced Poetry at www.writersonlineworkshops.com I posted the poem for critique.


Shadow

Not of woman born, you, April Fool grandson,
come of icy Michigan midnight, Detroit daffodils
spinning in winter beds, spying weeks more sleep:

you slept on, a sleep of life to mine of death,
and on the third day, Resurrection day,
I looked down from above and saw

your mom rise from the woods, alive,
discharged from ICU at last,
you two meeting face to face:

and I watched you, beloved children, and wept
for her joy, my tears feeding her IV line.
Caught by time your parents sought your name

and found mine, your stature, your girth,
your face, all mine, like baldness brought
forth by your mother’s Eierstock. From

birth at half the weight of most you
grew to a child awake beyond your years,
far-sighted like an old man’s glance back:

and when you met my Shenango River town,
drank a coffee stir, asked for more,
you saw time replaced, streets repaved,

the Knapp Hotel, my father’s haberdashery,
dashed, smashed by wrecking ball,
car dealership in their place, Aunt Gert’s

drugstore a plaza and parking lot:
still, there’s the rock I told your mom
I toted down the tracks for the park’s

monument, and she believed me, mythical,
mystical me: eight grandchildren I have,
and you alone commit, like me,

to en-why-see: Times Square, Wall Street,
Penn Station, where my eyes shadow you,
my grey-blues to your dark browns:

five-o-clock shadow, myopia, we share
these traits: just one question, Son—
why did you reject my school, the ivy

you spurned? I spied your mom’s attempt
to right that wrong when our gridiron teams
met on Halloween: she wore my bowling shirt,

class of ’32 embroidered in red cotton
over her heart, and sat with your band (I played
drum to your licorice stick): she couldn’t lose:

my school licked yours as clocks
ran down: you both cried, and I cried
for you, earnest mortals: so know your past,

Son, and think of me
when you see your shadow
on the sidewalks of New York.


When I sifted through the critiques from my classmates and teacher, I found I’d managed again (as in week two) thoroughly to confuse my readers. Their responses can be expressed as, “We like many things about the poem, but we’re not sure what it means.” This was not a good thing. Poetry, as far as I’m concerned, should be understandable (although that doesn’t mean everything about a poem needs to be revealed the first time it’s read). Because of the brevity of the form, sometimes the poet is too concise, trying to convey meaning with too little set-up.
Overwhelmed by the prospect of revising the poem, and caught in a conflict between communicating better and wanting to keep the poem intact, I asked my husband for help. Herb works in finance, not literature, but he’s a good problem-solver in any field. He’s also an accountant, so the first thing he did was to count the number of topics I’d touched on in “Shadow.” He tallied at least four: Ed’s birth, the Shenango Valley, the football game (Penn vs. Brown, 2004), and New York City. Since I wasn’t writing a book-length poem, he thought four topics were too many. I could see his point.

* * *

Macbeth is my favorite play, and things about it remind me of events of my own life. For example, the witch’s prophecy, “None of woman born shall harm Macbeth,” always puts me in mind of Ed’s birth by emergency Caesarean, for Macduff was delivered by a surgeon’s hands too, and so was not “of woman born.” I’m partial too to Birnam Wood’s coming to Dunsinane—it makes me think of stage productions I’ve seen, actors on their knees, sliding across a barely lit stage, pushing tiny trees in front of them. My doctor told me I was “out of the woods” the third day after Ed was born, and his comment reminds me of the Scottish play.
I wanted not only to tie my narrative to Macbeth; I also wanted to suggest religious connections. Ed was born on April 1, 1983, just after midnight, and just after the calendar had turned to Good Friday. I was discharged from intensive care on Easter Sunday, the day Ed’s incubator was wheeled into my room and at last I saw my baby. Though small and premature, Ed was perfectly healthy. I was the one who was sick. Some of these Shakespearean and religious references, however, I’d addressed too obscurely, and much of it was going to have to find a home other than in “Shadow.”
I knew I didn’t want to lose the New York connection, for that was what had propelled me to write the poem in the first place. I also didn’t want to lose the Shenango Valley link. Some of my happiest memories come from Sharpsville, and I’m sure the same was true for Daddy. Unfortunately, I couldn’t figure out how to fit the coffee stir into the poem in a way outsiders would understand, so I let it go. I hated to let go of the football game material, the images were so vivid, but, with a plan to use it in a different poem, I took out the football game as well.
Finally, I struggled with the title. Some readers weren’t sure the speaker was dead, so I played with alternate titles, like “Musings of a Dead Grandfather” and “The View from Beyond.” I found, though, that I was very attached to “Shadow,” so I’ve tried to make sure the reader can tell early on that the speaker is sending his message from the other side of life.


Shadow

April Fool grandson, you came of icy
Michigan midnight, Detroit daffodils
spinning in winter beds, spying

weeks more sleep, yet you slept on,
a sleep of life to mine of death:
for three days I waited above

and you waited below until your
mother rose from her bed, spilling
my tears on your cheek when she met

you face-to-face: my family's name
was given you, my height, my build,
my hands, my five o’clock shadow

I see in your mirror, and you grew
to a child awake beyond your years,
far-sighted like an old man's

glance back: when you met my
Shenango River town, you saw time
replaced, streets repaved, the Knapp

hotel, my father's haberdashery,
dashed, smashed by wrecking ball,
car dealership in their place,

Aunt Gert's drugstore a parking lot:
still, there sits the rock I told
your mom I toted down the tracks

for the park's monument, and she
believed me, mythical, mystical me:
eight grandchildren I have, and you

alone commit, like me, to en-why-see,
Wall Street, Penn Station, Times Square,
places where my eyes shadow

you, my grey-blues to your dark browns,
places where there’s even now the ghost
of me: so know your past, grandson,

and think of me when you see
your shadow on the sidewalks
of New York.


Mary Claire Mahaney is completing her first novel, “Osaka Heat.” She lives in McLean, Virginia, and can be reached at marycmahaney@msn.com You can visit her website at www.maryclairemahaney.com

Copyright © 1999-2008 cnhi, inc.