~for Grandaddy Ballard
Poetry Notes:
*My Grandfather died a week ago (but we all called him Grandaddy, so that’s how I’ll refer to him from now on). He was the last of my 4 Grandparents to go. They lived to 89, 91, 94, and 97.
*This poem, dedicated to him, is a found poem — meaning every line was “found” somewhere and then pieced together, intentionally, to make a whole. On the left side of the poem, I am quoting word for word things that were said at his funeral — from the pastor (my Dad), from folks getting up to share stories, and the eulogies given by his two children (my Mom and my Uncle).
*The right side of the poem is made up of some of my Grandaddy’s final words. He lived to 97 in his own house, on his own farm, and only for 9 days was he bedridden at the end. During some of those days, my cousin started writing down things that our Grandaddy was saying. They seemed significant to my cousin, if at times somewhat incoherent. When this cousin showed me all the stuff he’d jotted down, I was stunned and comforted. Grandaddy was not a man of many words, so to have even these few is precious.
*My goal was to make some meaningful connections between words from the funeral and words from Grandaddy. Please excuse the screenshot, but Substack’s formatting options are limited, and this poem needs the two sides to be justified on opposite sides of the page for it to flow in the way I intend. You can hear me read the poem below it.
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“Are you gonna stay with me tonight?” was one of the last things he said to my Mom, and being the faithful daughter she was, the answer was of course yes. She and her brother took turns at his bedside for all of his final days. For him to have said, “Jesus, are you here?” is nothing short of shocking, but that is exactly what my cousin heard, and exactly where I wanted this poem to end.
~~~
I’ve only just realized that I’ve written poems for each of my Grandparents. So, as a bonus, I thought I’d include them all this week, though many of you will have read some of them. For my Dad’s Dad (also called Grandaddy), I wrote Peanuts in June, first published in Hadden Turner’s Anthology from the Field, No. 4: Harvest. This Grandaddy was also a farmer, and I gathered much of this material from something my Dad had written for him. So it was a found poem of sorts, too, and it was one of the earliest poems I ever wrote in earnest.
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Peanuts in June a lament for Grandaddy Chock-full of vigor, our fixture of fervor now shuffles, stoop-shouldered. Skin, smooth and pink reduced to a patch of cancer, stretched over a frame. Between sunup and sundown his muscle worked a shovel, dehorned cattle, swam the Blackwater, paddled the Colorado, fried cornbread, grated sweet potatoes, held his wife. Tell me, what was it like to plow behind a mule? Tell me why you love the land so. Tell me, where did all that muscle go? You spent it. Like your lungs, now taking your last breath— you turned it into adventure— traded it in for years of laughing, light in your eyes— dancing with your only partner, in the airport parking lot. You wore it clean out, buried your muscle in the sandy soil of that Sunset View— planted it deep, on into death. For 89 years we watched it bloom, like peanuts in June.
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For my Dad’s Mom, I wrote Given (I believe this one is the most widely read poem of mine ever, so far): Given for Memama Alphin If all her gifts were returned to her (a strange experiment)— we might glimpse the measure of one woman's soul: thrift store treasures of every variety (and degree of quality)— so much kitchen gadgetry— mixers, spoons, spatulas— handsome or degenerate toys for each little boy she knew— jump ropes and hula hoops— a thousand thin boxes of Whitman's sampler— fudge, homemade (peanut butter or chocolate) piled silo-high— just imagine— the squares she cut, daily sweetness delivered county-wide— the shapes and scenes of all those biscuit tins— round, plastic cake covers, icing on the rim— stuffed animals, pre-loved, sleeping bags, my first plane ticket, my first kitten— roasted peanuts on blackened cookie sheets stacked hundreds-high— the m&m's and Oreos never- ending and Oh my dollar bills, I declare! tucked everywhere— 1s, 5s, 10s, 20s folded hastily without judgment— into every hand, every pocket, every nook of this imaginary mound— cram all of it (and more!) into your mind. If it begins to topple, let it fall like rain (the very thing most often named in Sunset View Farm's kitchen)— extravagant, free from guile— All she’s given, let it tumble, onto streets of gold (I pray), right outside the place (it must be glorious) prepared for the one and only Juanita.
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And for my Mom’s Mom, I wrote As Many Days and Weary, probably the truest lament of all of these: As Many Days and Weary a lament for MB There is no other way than Resurrection— no cage to rattle, no morbid misdirection— the fever won, an ending without satisfaction— plead if you like or yield (no need for intention)— the nurse is gone the medics left the field— we lie, deadweight awaiting an ascension— Come, uproot us grain fallen, unattended but by worms and rot— this seedling life as yet our bitter portion.
Further up & further in,
Anna
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