I keep finding poems that make me cry. I cry so much more than I used to. For years, I was too busy and distracted to notice the exquisite pain of things. But my son is getting ready to fly from the nest, and I cry randomly and often. I already miss him. Here is a poem that brought more tears–and some relief as I remember its happening everywhere. Its happened for ages, and in every culture.
The New Blade, by Anzai Hitoshi
My son is using a new razor
with clumsy hands.
Grooming himself as a grownup for the first time,
he spreads his elbows wide, as in a ritual,
very fastidiously, not looking sideways.
From below his temple a smear of blood
as big as a bird’s tongue keeps flowing,
no matter how often he wipes it off,
and he looks a little afraid.
What is hurt in him, I wonder.
His naked back is moistened, shining bright
like a tree trunk with its bark peeled off.
Although he doesn’t seem to hear them,
birds are singing loud in unison
around the young tree trunks.
He doesn’t seem to see it,
but the sea is rolling in the mirror.”
Here is a painting that went through lots of transformation, sort of like me lately.
Happy Spring everybody!