This is a poem about my father.
He's been losing his eyesight for several years,
and strangely enough since he got in an accident
and had a detached retina.
But since then, since he's been going blind,
his hobby is going to painting exhibitions,
and collecting paintings, which is I guess--
ironically carries a point.
But I try to imagine what it must be like in some way
to go blind, because I watched him
over a period of several years.
And after I'd written the poem, he asked me to read it to him
and mostly when you read it, when I read a poem to my father
he says, "what does it mean?
Did you make any money off it?"
Or something like that.
But he's usually pleased if I have some success with it.
But I read the poem to him, and he liked it.
He said it's something like that and I
was pleased to have had that effect on him.
It's called, "The Man Going Blind for My Father."
"He steps out each moment though unclear,
is a historical event in which he finds himself
always at the end, head tilted back,
in the dark room his eyes provide.
Refusing props and pity, he hides his poor side in a cup,
bathes it with fears.
Imagine a man lurching toward you continually out of himself,
the suspense.
The terrors he chooses to dream of in the private hours
blossom from what he's seen and will not see.
Imagine the mystery, strangers, hermitage,
the past light burnt into memory.
He is the man who never arrived safely, yet is rarely hurt.
On his face, puzzlement like a blank page, you are his reader.
Tempted by pity and seeking your own salvation,
you would gladly lie to limit what his eyes see.
Cared for by himself alone, his compassion divides.
Half is for the man who's going blind, for you,
he carries flowers in a dark room."