My father carried a poem with him all through his internment in Cabanatuan prison camp in the Philippines, carried it with him for four years, showed it to me one day folded and refolded, print blurred, coming apart. I, in my teens, not thinking, nodded and went on and forgot. Years later, I tried to recall what poem it was, even a single line of it but it was gone. The years go by, my mother’s dead this long time. There’s no one to ask. So I ponder it. And ponder motivations, what drives us, ponder what drives me still to write with the same intensity after all these years. And ponder the lost poem. Perhaps that’s part of it: I’m driven to create that poem I can’t recall, the poem that carried him through four years of Hell and home again. Or perhaps I’m driven to write a poem that will serve someone else as well. It’s a nice thought anyway: my poem in someone’s pocket, bent and faded, nourishing him, healing him through his own private Hell. A man could do worse with his life. I evoke my father’s image, our eyes meet, he nods in agreement, starts to speak then turns and walks off into the distance, bearing the lost poem with him.
You can find this poem in — Why I Write in Coffee Houses and Diners: Selected Poems
You can also check out the Poetic Outlaws merch shop here! I appreciate your support.
Thank you for this. Gasp. When I was about 7 yrs old my beloved grandfather once showed me a poem he'd written for me. Touched but also chagrinned and too immature to appreciate the moment, I didn't ask for it and treasure it as I now wish I had. I can't recall anything about the poem, just the love and honor I felt. Later Dad would tell me he never found it, never knew him to write poetry, and was as mystified as I was. The loss haunts me still.
Thank you so much for this poem today. Just the idea of the sustaining power the lost poem had for Albert Huffsticker's father is something I can carry with me for the rest of my life to sustain me. There are lines from poems that come to me when I need them in my darkest moments. Perhaps my mind carries those lines in its pocket and knows when to bring them out for me to hear when I need them.