the ocean told me
the ocean told me
the ocean told me
you would laugh for years
i heard it with my eyes closed
and i knew
you would laugh for years
after i left
and i knew
you would not be alone or bereft
after i left
you would be held
you would not be alone
you would float
you would be held
by more than me
you would float
and then you’d fly
by more than me
the ocean told me
and then you’d fly
i heard it with my eyes
At a certain point, my father started writing poems based on pictures. Many of theme were picture he took at the point in his life where he felt most comfortable behind the camera. He took so many digital pictures we called him Papa-razzi. In his poems he would claim to speak in the voice of the person in the photograph, a way of tuning in, displacing his own ego, a form of intimacy and honoring. I sensed that there was also projection there too. So I read for the aspects that exceeded the projection. Now I read those same poems , all written in the first person, looking for the poet, the photographer, the person finally able to speak while pretending to put someone else out front. At a certain point in this series of poems, based on pictures of me as a young child with my father, mostly photos taken by my mother, I felt my own perspective changing. First I wrote in “my own” voice, the bereaved adult daughter chronicling what I saw, longed for in the images. Then I could hear or imagine my infant self, reaching for memory, what did I know then that I need to remember now. Then towards the end of the process I began to hear my father’s voice. I began to engage the possibility of writing about what I still strongly experience as MY loss of HIM, from his perspective. Not a reversal into his loss of me, still my loss of him, but what he knows about it. What might he have known before all of this about what my life would be like after his. In his coaching practice my father encouraged people (including me one of his most willing experimental subjects) to imagine their impact as far into the future as they could envision, beyond their own lifetimes. What decisions did he make because he was imagining my life beyond his lifetime? What decisions must we make now imagining the lives of our loved ones beyond our lifetimes, imagining this planet beyond our species? Yes. Seems like a good time to listen to the ocean.
If you want to read some of my Dad’s poetry Without Apology: Poems in Honor of Black Women by Clyde E. Gumbs is available here.
If you want support listening to the ocean you can order my most recent book Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals here.
P.S. My every day writing practice shapes my days into vessels for generations of love. If you want support with your own daily creative practice, I’d love to be part of your journey. This is the Stardust and Salt Daily Creative Practice Intensive.