My father is referenced in the very first line, and Lois is mentioned later. I think this is one of Fred’s poems, but I’m not sure. The penmanship in the note matches a 1971 letter of his to a reasonable degree (the L and W in particular) and he references Bob, so I think my guess is good.
Con los ojos cerrados
Con ellos abiertos,
Con las manos cerradas,
Con ellas abiertas,
Con la boca cerrada,
Con ella abierta,
Te escucho y
Con los cinco sentidos,
Luz Adriana Rojo Estrada
(Found in Patrick’s files, dated 12 Sep 2013)
Here are a pair of rejection notices from The Carolina Quarterly, offering analysis while encouraging further submissions. These are undated. I have no clue as to which poems were being considered.Continue reading “Rejections”
I’m an imperfect copy of an imperfect father
Adopting his failures
Mimicking his weaknesses
Poorly duplicating his better qualities
His virtuosity in music
His confidence with women
His tenacity in publication
We shared the joy of teaching
A love of words and music
A sharp wit and curmudgeonly air
A familial void
The absence of each another
Over too many years
I’m an imperfect copy of an imperfect father
Yet I must self-acknowledge
My few qualities, the ones he lacked
As a racer
As an engineer
As a responsible man
7 May ’17
Copyright © 2017, 2019 John Dillon
Unfairly risen from distant, awkward past
Shimmer on horizon
Distort the view
From murky mirror in rusty frame
Hint at what once was
Mar the recollections
With clouded silvered glass
And cobwebs draped in ornate corners
Eyes focused forward
We march toward the future
But our boot laces
Like these memories
Remain entangled in the thickets
From where we tread before
© 2019 John P. M. Dillon
shattered in the fountain
swings west while we sleep
the moon is shattered in the fountain.
let's wake the poet
with so many dreams
he will have things to say.
I have no idea when this was written, or if this is even Patrick’s. It was at the top of the file called poems.doc, which contained a collection of his writings.
Nathaniel Hawthorne has a book called The Shattered Fountain so perhaps this is the reference, or perhaps even a quote.
For what it’s worth, I’ve been told that Nathaniel Hawthorne was my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. (Not sure how many “greats” belong there but I think it’s five.)
it’s christmas day.
the wind is up a bit,
clouds are preparing a total invasion – it’s been blue skies for weeks.
long live merrie, and happie kubrick
already the days are a few seconds longer than last week;
that always encourages me to get my wind up,
to take a new chomp at the biscuit of significant living.
like a prestidigitator, the mind pops out of the hat
the world as we have known it, large as life,
sitting in the sun on the St Marks square,
scarf flapping in the breeze, smiling or bite your beard.
you in your kitchen in freeport making simple soup
a morning in the blue room in salisbury on the way to tampa,
light playing in branches outside the window,
f with a cup of coffee looking askance at the slightly uneven keyboard of
the piano, and whoosh
my brother in dark glasses in the airport bar, plotting murder,
mari leaning against marble fluted columns at the temple of aphrodite
somewhere in turkey,
her white skirt blowing (does that photo still exist, you wonder),
but this vision is run over by a red mercury convertible on a dusty road,
or left in a minimized window
when fred clutches his right(?) hand under his armpit as the swelling begins
and we all jump
into her car and puncture in our haste the oil pan,
and so on and on,
a veritable pride of kodaks in this and that apartment or field or why not,
the smell of a street in athens, where the roasting meat makes memory
salivate for more?
the wind howling in kushadasi…
marvel at the gigabytes we have in common memory…
and yet we are all puzzles to one another,
most of the pieces scattered in the many years of silence and no contact
soon our satellite will leave the influence of the sun – think of it!
it seems whatever we find, we have space for it under our skulls
where did i see this: like a sponge too drenched, the mind when saturated
with grief spills and thus we created tears
also: when soaked with such splendid shared time, we overflow into smiles
and lungs swollen with exhilaration as if we could breathe life into each
other and the universe itself, merely by saying robert, fred, italy, greece,
doug, leftittown (to prequote robbie), tree, rose, red clay, green fields,
as 9-year-old yoji in soller said if god is everywhere you and i are god
Lots of love from
together with you on this celestial RR (pace e.m. forster)
From Patrick on 25 Dec Y2K
Hope you all had a happy Christmas.
I sent this to a couple of friends who are older than I am, Fred Young (in North Carolina), and Robert Dreicer, now in Florence, Italy. We all met when I was teaching on Long Island, and they met all of you, and Donna, so I thought, you might want it, since it is in a way, part of your history, too.
Now we are all so much older, and hopefully some of the sorrows of then have been healed. Some, I say, because never can all be cleansed. Each of us has deeds to regret, and mine are awful and inexcusable…
Still, much love to you all, and may you prosper in this new millennium.
And from 29 Dec Y2K
Yes of course [you may post it]
It was composed on the spot
and sent without further thought- –
which one day I might regret:
but not yet.
Have a good blowout
but not on your Widget!
The Black and Marmara seas breed gypsy souls
Among the Turks. The brown and umber shoals
Of shade, beneath the parrot green or blue
Feathered waves, shivering to spew
Onto land with raucous breakers, flicker dark
And light like wrinkled, laughing eyes. The blades
Of sun in slashing arcs like Dervish swords
Go mad in colors that the nomad hordes
Had never dreamed in barren hills by Bor;
Here by Troy each man becomes a song
Of red and yellow like the single birds
Whistling in the open air as they soar
Toward the pines at Hissarlik where goatherds
meet at dusk, a dusty harlequin throng.
He bought a fresh loaf
The baker swathed it in a square of paper
pinched at the corners
good to carry under the arm
In the street he smiled
from the depths of his seventy-four years
and praised the arrival of spring.
A new note, this,
since a stroke of mortality
(is it already?)
four years ago
he has touched gingerly
the world he feared to leave
But Sunday hope was there in his eyes
like two cherries out of three
for the jackpot
like products of the soil
delivered through his soul
to the bosom of your own heart
He would come, soon,
to hear us play
as soon as the days were a little longer,
his bones sucking up the damp at evening
Now he lived so near the cemetery
good he could stand in the sun
and let his skull grin through
snap your fingers
whole days are gone
when you can remember three score and ten
as a flicker of bird flight among the live oaks
back to boyhood when forever
still included you
Suddenly: it's Wednesday
And he has walked into our past
halted in the midst
of a hope or regret.
Deià, April 1984
How many springs is it now
that Tomeu pretends he has heard the first song?
And I dispute his word?
The trouble is
Tomeu is native
a stranger with no such bird
in the land I knew.
But so strong is my wish
I cannot shake my faith:
There must be a wind to bring them
up from Africa – such small creatures
need the charity of a gale
to find the lemon tree
outside my window.
Last night only the draft of the woodstove
and the torrente in the bottom
inhabited the silence.
An abrupt squall
drowned the water sounds,
The shutters strained their latches
and then instant stillness fell.
we both questioned the air
our eyes met
mouths round to wonder if…
In the renewed hush of pitch black morning
the notes at once rang the valley
like a glass bell declaring
after miles of sea
the joyful dominion of a thicket.
Tomeu of course, heard one last week.