| Merely
a Tribute It's a thin, unpretentious little book of poems and woodcuts
done by two old friends, both of whose fathers died of Alzheimer's disease. It's
purpose is merely (merely?!) to pay tribute to two fathers and to share their
bitter and eminently human experience with the rest of us. The result is not only
an affirmation of our shared humanity but an eloquent expression of the determination
not to go silently into that good night. What seems most admirable about the whole
exercise is that, though there's nothing we can do, there is something we can
do--express it! In
the introduction to the book the authors state: "Discussing our fathers after
their deaths, we were struck by the similarity of our experiences. There was the
same mixture of love and pain as we watched our fathers' intellectual powers desert
them, the same horror as their familiar identities disappeared. "Everyone
deals with mourning in her own way. We both needed to revisit the experience of
loss over and over, examining it, shaping and reshaping it, only letting go when
we could turn it into art and poetry." Driven
Deeply Home
What drives this particular art and poetry so deeply home is the fact that, though
we don't all have Alzheimer's, we do all have fathers, and Milman's and Sullivan's
views of theirs lead us inevitably to dredge up our own carefully-laid-away paternal
recollections , shames and joys. Suddenly we realize that the authors have succeeded
in taking us by surprise, transforming their own grief into a poignant asthetic
experience which we can share. Homespun and familiar though their raw materials
may have been, heartbreak and hardship, bedpans and restraining webs, Milman and
Sullivan have lovingly rendered them down into something sublime: Art. Listen:
| | Changes Like
the slack stomached lion in the zoo pacing
his meager cage, my father after his latest heart attack is changed --
no longer a tyrant he now makes tea carries the dishes to the kitchen...
I find I cannot accept this blurred vision of a man whose imperious ways
once infuriated me. Now like the lion he makes me weep for his jungle
past his proud marauding on the hot savanna king in a household of women
we brought him the kill he was first satisfied and always had the final
word. Now he waits his turn to talk. Depleted,
I must pour my years of rage into a cup and drink the bitter brew. The
bastard's dead and a cautious ghost haunts the ancient frame. The fire
is quite put out. How can I deal with a mild father now that the time
for anger is over? Victoria
Sullivan 1980 | |
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