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Apr. 27th, 2024 05:50 pmMy Eighty-Six Year Old Uncle, the erstwhile poet and sometime spy, sent me a bunch of poetry via a Facebook attachment.
My father was closest to this one. And decided at some point, said Uncle was a spy. We knew he worked in Army Intelligence from roughly 1960-1980s. Uncle was living in Berlin, Germany coaching a basketball team during the late 1970s early 80s, and touring East Germany with the team. He was working for the US Army as a basketball coach. (It didn't occur to my father until about ten years ago that oh, his brother was a spy. You'd think it would have occurred to him back then? But nooo.)
Uncle sent about fifty-nine pages of poems. In short, a book of poetry. Not just a handful of poems, a book. He does books of poetry. (I've told you that my father's side of the family is basically made up of frustrated writers, right? )
Now, I'm not the best judge of poetry on a good day. I like it better than most of my family. He used to send it to my parents - who don't like poetry at all.
I've written it, and studied it, and have a passing appreciation for it. And I admittedly prefer his to some of the modern "free verse" that I've seen of late. I'm not a fan of prose posing as poetry. I need it to have a rhythm to it. With metaphor. And analogy. I'm kind of old school when it comes to poetry? I like the early 20th and late 18th and 19th Century poets better than the 21st century ones?
I started reading a few of the poems that my Uncle sent me...some good, some astonishingly so, and some not. Although it's all subjective, anyhow. But as I read - I find I've been given a gift. My family is a gift of never-ending riches provided to me by my parents, God, happenstance, and those who came before. As alone as I feel at times - there's always my family.
When someone shares a piece of themselves with you? Be grateful. Savor. And be curious. Do not throw it away. Nor disregard. Gifts don't come often and are often shared with trepidation and forethought.
My father was closest to this one. And decided at some point, said Uncle was a spy. We knew he worked in Army Intelligence from roughly 1960-1980s. Uncle was living in Berlin, Germany coaching a basketball team during the late 1970s early 80s, and touring East Germany with the team. He was working for the US Army as a basketball coach. (It didn't occur to my father until about ten years ago that oh, his brother was a spy. You'd think it would have occurred to him back then? But nooo.)
Uncle sent about fifty-nine pages of poems. In short, a book of poetry. Not just a handful of poems, a book. He does books of poetry. (I've told you that my father's side of the family is basically made up of frustrated writers, right? )
Now, I'm not the best judge of poetry on a good day. I like it better than most of my family. He used to send it to my parents - who don't like poetry at all.
I've written it, and studied it, and have a passing appreciation for it. And I admittedly prefer his to some of the modern "free verse" that I've seen of late. I'm not a fan of prose posing as poetry. I need it to have a rhythm to it. With metaphor. And analogy. I'm kind of old school when it comes to poetry? I like the early 20th and late 18th and 19th Century poets better than the 21st century ones?
I started reading a few of the poems that my Uncle sent me...some good, some astonishingly so, and some not. Although it's all subjective, anyhow. But as I read - I find I've been given a gift. My family is a gift of never-ending riches provided to me by my parents, God, happenstance, and those who came before. As alone as I feel at times - there's always my family.
When someone shares a piece of themselves with you? Be grateful. Savor. And be curious. Do not throw it away. Nor disregard. Gifts don't come often and are often shared with trepidation and forethought.