I am violating a cardinal rule in this blog: Every entry must have a picture. I have to suspend the rule to give space to beauty which, though not visible to the eye, is felt by the heart. This beauty is the love of a son expressed in a poem by Butch Espere (aka Alex Munoz) for his father whose birthday is December 7. His old man died three years ago. Butch says that the words in his poem "cry to be said."
The poem touches a raw nerve in all of us for we are all children. And many of us may feel pangs of regret for words unsaid to our parents. The regret may even be deeper when the parents are already dead and rectification is foreclosed.
Parents who will be privileged to read the poem will understand their children more. I hope it resolves those little nagging issues between parents and children, and narrows if not closes the berth that comes from generation gap, ideological divide or whatever cause. I am warning you: this moves you to tears as it is beautiful.
The poem touches a raw nerve in all of us for we are all children. And many of us may feel pangs of regret for words unsaid to our parents. The regret may even be deeper when the parents are already dead and rectification is foreclosed.
Parents who will be privileged to read the poem will understand their children more. I hope it resolves those little nagging issues between parents and children, and narrows if not closes the berth that comes from generation gap, ideological divide or whatever cause. I am warning you: this moves you to tears as it is beautiful.
A DINNER WITH FATHER
(For Papa, with apologies to Jun Canizares)
by: Butch Espere
You were just an embrace away
but the peal of forks and spoons
scooping crumbs on our dinner plates
were so thundering, echoing a distance.
And I wonder if you’d notice it like I did
when we reached for a glass.
Well, maybe you wanted to spin something
maybe about the weather, or some fairy tales,
or any yarn or songs of love or filial piety.
But I remember we’re always like this
since I was twenty when writing underground
manifestoes and lightning rallies and the brute
truncheons of class enemies took away
the innocence for this drifting apart. I waited
for the words to come as we drank our glass
and stared at the infinite space between us,
at a universe that has no answers
why subversion is a necessary thing.
Then you stood and headed for the anteroom
without as much a bidding, your footsteps
stretching away the poles that were you and me.
I heard a heart-surge, seething within,
pained and trying in vain to abort this parting.
Silently screaming, “This one’s for you all!
And I love you!"... I honestly love you.
120708/quezon city
