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A Round of Poetry Ten years before I was born, my father went to Vietnam to fuel airplanes against the DRV and polish his pinochle playing. Later, he relived his “glory days” by melding at dinner parties, the trick-taking before the onset of PTSD frightened friends away. He beat his wives. He beat his children. Nothing took the sounds, the smells, word of his friends dying, away. He sat before reams of paper, pencils sharpened spears beside him, unable to compose a single word. After college, I went to China, teaching English to college students in Henan, rather than journeying farther south where the sounds of cards shuffling deadened my father’s senses in Vietnam. Now I sit before paper or sometimes a keyboard, unable to meld a thought or a phrase into poetry. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2006-08-26 10:33:24
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.81818
An interesting take on the two worlds you lived in. Your father's PTSD certainly was and is the bane of many servicemen who saw hell.
I love the line about melding. Brilliant! I guess one can say that you both made circles towards the same ending. You are a survivor.
unable to meld a thought or a phrase into poetry.
You were not "unable" here !