Friday, August 26, 2005


We are men, then, who make a man:
To teach to fish; to teach to love
A woman well. And if that dark horse in him
Is a ghost, then, Father, the man knows
He will die alone, with or without his own love.

We are men, then, who do not build the house,
But who build our father’s houses as he grins.
We help him know he’s done right by us
By bringing up more men, passing the haunts
Of hammer and nail. Still, one must wonder

Are we men, then, who push on through dirt
And death to bury our fathers, who mend
And make our sorrows meek, even as brothers
Look elsewhere? To the ground or elsewhere?
We have to name the cause, the ghost

We are. Men, then, are made of more
Grain than dust, more muted by liquor
Than each outlasting of us. And if a man
Brings another to the table, kisses him, but
Teaches him to fish, to love a body well,

What then? Is it not the same
Of someone else’s son? Can I not raise him
Like a lover is raised, teach him to build
His father’s houses? It is the death I am undoing;
It is the memory of you I want you to live to see.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

What a Kind Review!

Part of me feels hugely lame to post this, but oh well.

I want to share an incredibly kind review of Talking in the Dark that a lovely mother and poet, Leila B of Quezon City, Philippines, wrote and posted to her blog today. She was even considerate enough to ask my permission to post a few poems! How great is that?

Check it out at! And thanks again Leila!