I'm reading a fascinating book at the moment, Denis O'Driscoll's Interviews with Seamus Heaney. One of Heaney's replies relates to something that has bothered me occasionally. I feel a little guilty that I have not written more poems about my children; and I can't quite explain why I haven't. It seems Heaney was aware of a similar shortfall in his own poetry. He said: "When the child is born, the child is more than enough. Poetry's just not up to it." I wonder what others think?

Hi Greg - this is really quite bizarre. I'd often wondered too what it is that appears to prevent/dissuade poets from writing about their children - at least in a relatively direct sense. This first came to my attention after I'd read much of Bukowski's work before realising that there was little,if anything, written about his daughter. I was curious as to just how his style would fit into writing about his children. And if it was even possible! I wrote about this in part of a poem I penned last year -

"... All poets will surely write about their children
leaving the lovers, the whores, the addicts, the fuckers and the cheats alone for a while
so i searched
and found
and read Marina..."



Marina (by Charles Bukowski)

majestic, majic
infinite
my little girl is
sun
on the carpet-
out the door
picking a flower, ha!
an old man,
battle-wrecked,
emerges from his
chair
and she looks at me
but only sees
love,
ha!, and I become
quick with the world
and love right back
just like I was meant
to do.

Interesting, guys. I have no problems writing about my kids but have some guilt about struggling to do love poems about my wife.

I'm wondering if 'guilt' may be the operable word in all of this!?

That too, John, now you mention it! And apologies for missing out a crucial "not" from the Heaney quote. Now inserted. Interested to read the Bukowski, Darren. Here's a cracker by Ted Hughes. Probably lots of people know this one:

Full Moon and Little Frieda

A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket –
And you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming – mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.

Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath –
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'

The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.

A strange topic to think about. I wrote this a few months after my son was born, but haven't written one in the subsequent two years about him. Don't know if I ever will.


Growing Flowers By Candlelight

Ambition expressed in the raise of an eyebrow.
History yet to be formed in the eyes.
The lifting of a neck and turn of a head
following a Mother’s voice.

The tiniest grip on an oversized finger,
an instinctive need for security.

Filling a mind with nonsense words,
hoping something sticks.

The wonder at disappearing, appearing faces.
A reaction - all gums and tongue –
a smile to dissolve.

The waggle of a toy emits squeaks to delight,
to mollify before feeding, before sleep.

And how the breathing continues, hushed,
from day into night,
each inhale,
each exhale,
to put a new parent’s mind at ease.

Then a pause.
A falter to the pattern.
A slight whimper, then back
to snow landing on wood.

And what dreams do flowers grown
by candlelight dream?
Blurred renderings of patternless people?
Distorted shapes and wonderings?

Or just safety, realised
in a Father’s arms, looking
into borrowed eyes, satisfied
the light is sufficient.

Very delicate poem, John. And any parent would recognise and sympathise with the lines about breathing; looking in at the cot at night. I wasn't writing poetry when my children were growing up. I kept a diary for the first few years, but whether I can retrieve anything now, I don't know. It's a lifetime ago.

Interesting thread...

I think some poets are a bit self obsessed - others more inspired by the miserable aspects of life.

Or maybe I've got it wrong and it's like Heaney said - there's just no adequate way of putting it into words.

Like Greg, I wasn't into writing poetry when my children were very young - was too knackered just looking after them. As they've grown though, I've found myself incredibly influenced by the things they've said and done and they've inspired many poems. In fact the latest poem I haven't finished is all about my daughter's passion for collecting stones :)

Lovely poem John! x

Some little while ago a theme set at an Open Mic I attend in Beverley was "Art". Of course,the scope is enormous but interestingly I opted for one about my children.

Works of Art

I’ve never had much fortune in the field of DIY
Or arts and crafts or literature; these skills have passed me by;
When other kids in class could paint a decent scene or sky
With my lack of expertise I stood apart.

I well recall the time at school made a pencil case
In woodwork, where I almost planed it down without a trace
But stopped in time to offer up a matchbox in its place;
My end of term report said “Not too smart”.

Or when I purchased from Ikea a wardrobe or a shelf
With notes for pigeon english for a dummy like myself
Assembled they would always pose a threat to life or health
As I stared at a spare and unused part.

Then 20 years ago a hidden talent I unfurled
When I made a working model of a new-born baby girl
With great big eyes whose tiny fingers round my own could curl
Repeated in her younger counterpart.

Every piece was perfect and I needn’t thank the stork
I taught them how to crawl, then stand and finally to walk
I taught them how to laugh and cry, to listen and to talk –
Skills I found so easy to impart.

They grew like little flowers through childhood, then indeed,
They blossomed into womanhood, each from their single seed
A teacher and a manager with separate lives to lead
With precious little talent…
…I have made these works of art.

(One from my schmaltzy stable)

I find poems about children fascinating. I do write some myself, quite regularly, not necessarily about my own. Some are my personal responses, of course, the whole 'miracle' aspect. But I see innocence, clarity and wisdom in any child, totally divorced from myself. Or is that possible?

I do find retrospection of my own childhood a very rich source of material.

When I feel 'grown-up vexed' for 'grown-up reasons' I try to remember that I was a child too, and respond accordingly. This response often irritates other grown-ups. But I maintain there is a huge difference between 'child-like' and 'childish'. As with anything important, definitions are a huge hurdle.

I am off-topic, aren't I? AGAIN!