By Erin Robertson
I wish I could say I was closer to my grandfather, but as the years went on and his Alzheimer’s progressed, it began to get harder just to see him. We watched him suffer so his death was something of a relief. In a time of mourning, I wrote this piece:
Fourteen dozen roses,
cut clipped, and arranged,
spread throughout the pews.
paid precision and prayer
fake sympathy and stares
bore through to the soul
it’s the friends and family
that keep you sane
so dry your tears
try to smile
the coffin is closed
the sermon was said
in the line we file
morbid flags that warn our purpose
march along the silence grows,
sobs muffled out of shame.
gather under the green tent
sit upon velvet thrones of mourning
as a group,
we bow our heads
blessing for the one departed
amens in sync
good wills, remembrance, praise
i whisper goodbye
drop his favorite flower
to decorate my grandfather’s tomb.
_________________________
This next poem was written roughly about the same time. Death, and its morbidity, was frequently on my mind. I wrestled with the idea of an afterlife or the concept that something so pure can be torn into sinful shreds.
death,
it comes on tar-dipped wings
dragging down the weightless soul
perfect when?
no longer flawless
as it flies
with heavy wings
down to hell,
to meet
judgement day has long since passed
fail or pass
the side you wish
death it comes on tar-dipped wings
dragging down the weightless soul
perfect then,
no longer flawless
anguish may have plagued you then,
but now,
you can be free.
whispers of unspoken trial
jury, angels, demons
judge of neutral boundaries
find you guilty,
innocent child
whichever way
you tend to walk,
you will be happy now
life, you may have suffered
dying, you might have been in pain,
but death, Sweet, death
it always comes,
exactly when it’s supposed to come.
_________________________
At a time of peak adolescent anguish, my friend –and thereby, I– got tangled up with people who were not as they seemed to be. Often, my poems are free verse; however, I tried my hand at some resemblance of “Traditional Poetry.”
Enemy in someone you like:
Everyone wants to know
what’s behind the face you show
we all see your pride
you modestly try to hide
the smile that plays across your face
has seemed to find its place
but your moods change like a clock
the swings impossible to mock
a bipolar symptom waits to strike
find an enemy in someone you like
more outbreaks, in succession,
betray the mild marks of depression
your friendship is a weight to bear
it seems that no one wants to care…
your ‘quirks,’ they draw the curious
they come to mimic the delirious
they make a mockery of your ills
stunned by the bouquet of pills
a bipolar symptom waits to strike
find an enemy in someone you like.
_________________________
I don’t remember why I wrote it, but the first couple lines were running through my head for quite a few days, and I decided to elaborate on it in my 9th grade English class. My friend and I had been discussing the change in society and how people are satisfied being mediocre and achieving nothing. I guess I had big dreams back then, too.
my modern art wonder
of the twenty-first century
is torn straight from the pages
of a young man’s book
the whispers spoken
of wild ventures
swallowed by some
corporate gain
the mind-blowing drugs
destroy the naive
open portals onto new levels
swimming hallucinations of
teenage ideals
and the real world
collide with a splay of
colors only the
high can see
disappointments inspire
push onward or settle for less
business world stays on
the fast track for life
stuck in a job with no career
working up to work out
it’s got no end
it’s the truth that will slap
a truth we all know
the world as the jungle it is
Leaf Of A Ginkgo – Erin’s Tattoo, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, May 2010, photo © 2010 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.
I have yet to visit my grandfather’s grave site, years after his burial. I wanted to commemorate his passing in my own way. As a horticulturist, he loved all plants, but most specifically the ginkgo for its unchanged history. Rather than ink myself with a cliché R.I.P/tombstone tattoo, I came up with the idea of a falling ginkgo leaf. Its importance would be known to very few, preserving my grandfather’s memory.
About Erin: My name is Erin Robertson and I am a graduating senior from Susquehanna Township High School. Later this year I will be attending Temple’s Honors College to pursue a Doctorate in Psychology (because I am rather ambitious). My life has been full of adventure and I have met many unusual people and experienced quite a lot for someone my age. My life, the environments I find myself in, and the people I know, have all served as inspirations for the creative outlets in my life. I focus on poetry as a big way for me to express myself and my emotions.
Erin, welcome to red Ravine! First I want to say that your new tattoo is beautiful. It makes me want to know more about the ginkgo plant. Besides what you say about why your grandfather loved the plant, what else do you know about it? I recall it is a helpful herb for memory loss. That’s about all I know.
Second, well, the poems are rich. Very rich. Your more traditional poem worked well. I, too, like prose poems and/or non-rhyming poetry in general, yet your word rhymes were natural and not forced. Also, I have a daughter who is about to enter 9th grade–hence, the poem resonates in a big way.
The first poem in the post, about your grandfather, made me think of how much a grandparent and one’s relationship to a grandparent can change over time. I didn’t know my father’s parents–they both died when he was young–but I’ve gotten to know them through the annual pilgrimage I take with my father to their graves. Also through his writing. And it’s been a sweet kind of knowing, one that can be what I make it be, precisely because I never really knew them when they were alive.
I’d like to say more and will later. I feel like I’m just touching on the many thoughts that your poems brought up for me. Thanks.
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Erin,
I will comment on your wonderful poems later but for now I want you to know how proud I am of you.
Daddy
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Wow….just…I am not surprised by your outstanding talents as a writer, yet I look at these beautiful pieces you wrote and I’m not only envious about your writing style and how you are able to pour them out on paper, but I am also amazed by how you make an almost picture-perfect imagery through your words…I-I-I’m speechless!
I really connected with the first two poems. It explains how death affects all and I understood that. This is also because I also had just recently lost my grandfather due to cancer back in April…I know this is long overdue, however, I’m sorry for the loss of your grandfather. Even with he fact that he had Alzheimer’s is scary. I couldn’t imagine watching any of my loved ones fade away and then they can’t remember you.
I laughed a bit on your third poem. It explains the weird emotions in people quite well. Although I don’t doubt this explains the mindset of many guys (lol), I do realize, however, that anyone can have this mindset. It’s sad people want to be other beings rather than find the specialty in themselves….either that, or they’re just jerks
Anyways, excellent job with the poetry, keep it up, congratulations on graduating STHS, and good luck in college!
Oh, and love the tattoo!
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ybonesy: I do know that the ginkgo has remained unchanged for thousands of years. No sort of mutation or evolution. It is an absolutely pure plant. I think that might have enchanted my grandfather. As for the help retaining memory, I find it a little ironic that his favorite tree would be used as such as he suffered from the memory loss associated with dementia and Alzheimer’s.
Entering high school is a terrifying transition- as is going to college. I think my self expression definitely helped. I was truly at peace when I wrote, be it for class or in a journal or poetry. Playing my instrument and listening to music helped. It is a totally non-judgmental zone hidden in the chaotic and (honestly) sometimes traumatizing atmosphere at high school.
JBR: I’m glad you were able to connect with the poems. While they are powerful to me, it’s always comforting to know that someone else can relate to them. In the long run, popularity of poems is not about the writing style or the 50 cent words but truly of the ability of the author to create something that draws in the audience and can relate to many people.
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Ha, I hadn’t put the two together–that ginkgo is used for memory loss and that your Alzheimer’s-afflicted grandfather loved the tree. And along those lines, I did find this alternative medicine site (part of the US National Institute of Health), which notes that ginkgo is used in the treatment of Alzheimer’s: http://nccam.nih.gov/health/ginkgo/. For some reason, that makes me think of a possible fictional story about a ginkgo tree that restores an old man’s memory…something in the genre of magical realism. 8)
Gosh, your comment reminded me that high school is a pretty scary place. I don’t know why I thought mid-school was worse for girls. I guess because in mid-school, girls are usually also going through so much physical and emotional change. But high school can be pretty darned traumatizing, as you say. I do think writing can help. I know it helps me through whatever difficulties I confront.
I’m thinking now about what you wrote about Temple and the PhD in Psychology. Would you want to teach or to practice or both? And given that writing has helped you through emotional ups and downs, what do you think of the idea of a dual concentration with Literature? That way you could incorporate writing into your practice.
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there has always been part of me that wanted to teach. just never little kids. So maybe both. my “dream” would probably be to have my own practice. i don’t want to get in on the drug industry so i would never be a psychiatric, i did plenty of research on the persuasive money that comes from the industrial giants to the doctors.
i think writing is something that i will keep with me forever. there’s no way i can just simply stop. i’m not sure if i could limit myself with a degree in it. I feel that if i am “taught” how to write i might lose what i’ve got. even through high school i’ve been told i write wrong. it’s disheartening.
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Erin, I’m so excited to have you as a Guestwriter on red Ravine. When I visited a few weeks ago, I loved that you had a folder of all of your poetry. I wanted to ask a couple of things about your process in writing poetry. How much do you revise your poems? Do they come out pretty whole? I’m always fascinated by the revision process because it’s so different for everyone. The other question I had — when did you first start writing poetry? How old were you? I remember that you were always a voracious reader.
It makes me sad to think you’ve been told that you don’t write the right way. I find your writing and poetry to be so alive. And the comments you’ve made on red Ravine have always been articulate and thoughtful. Don’t ever let that Wild Mind go. The teacher that ybonesy and I study with calls that rawness and independence in writing, those first thoughts, Wild Mind. So many times people are told things about their writing and art, criticized, and it’s so destructive. I admire that you want to keep what you have. Oddly, I made that same decision at one point in my life. When I was trying to decide whether to get my degree in art or writing, I went for the art. Because I didn’t want my writing to become academic.
I like reading the back and forth between you and ybonesy about your tattoo, about the ginkgo. I studied it a little bit when I was in Augusta with mom and there was this old ginkgo tree outside a place where one of our ancestors used to have a home. There are some old, old trees down there. And, of course, we always visit the cemeteries. I wondered — do you think you’ll ever want to visit your grandfather’s grave? Or is it something that feels settled for you.
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My darling Erin, you never, ever cease to amaze me. I’ve always known that you are incredibly intelligent and observant; your ability to express yourself so incisively, and yet so musically, is such a gift. I am proud that you spend so much time working so hard to be honest about what you feel and think. You are my hero.
P.S. Happy Graduation!
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I can’t sit down and write. little saying will pop up in my head and if they repeat themselves often enough, i will begin to work a makeshift poem in my head. (For example, i’ve had “the day never listened to anyone other than her” bouncing around my head for years) Then i write it all out. just let whatever it is flow. It never really takes very long to jot it all down. Unless I totally scrap the poem and start over, i don’t revise large chunks of it. I may take out a word here or there to make it flow better but thats about it. I think i started writing a little after my parents separated. It was pretty traumatic and i have some powerfully emotional pieces, maybe even more so than some i’ve posted today. It sparked a flood of poetry.
I’ve been constantly told to change the way i write, prose or otherwise. it’s frustrating because i just don’t like the way some people write. it’s not expressive and i don’t want to keep to a formula when i’m supposed to be putting myself out there.
I do want to go to the grave. just not now. i’m not ready. i didn’t see him at the open casket and i’m not ready to see the gravestone. i don’t think i could handle it emotionally. when i’m ready, when i think i’ve healed enough, i will see it. or maybe not. i don’t see the point. it’s like going to church to pray. if i can “talk to god” i don’t think he’d be too picky about where i do it. if i want to remember and honor my grandfather, i don’t need to be weeping at his gravesite, i can be celebrating him in my daily life.
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I like that attitude, of celebrating people in our daily lives. Poetry is a good way to work with the grief and loss. It seems like there is a lot of loss in life, a lot of suffering. Yet the other side of the coin is to be able to feel joy. To experience the full range of our emotions. You are going to do well in the psychology arena. The way you look at life seems inclusive, a willingness to look at all sides. I’m going to be thinking of you tomorrow when you step over one threshold, out into another open door. So much beauty, inside and out. I appreciate all that you have shared. It takes courage to get your work out into the world. In fact, to put anything we have great passion for out there for the masses to view takes guts. You have great courage.
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How beautiful to be able to express grief in poetry! Erin, you’re very talented. I’ve enjoyed reading your poems.
Your tattoo is a wonderful tribute to your grandfather. It’s one of the nicest tattoos I’ve seen.
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Erin, best wishes for your commencement ceremony. I get pretty weepy when I think about what graduation means, and I like the idea of focusing on not endings but beginnings–hence, commencement. Commencement of a new phase of your life. How exciting! How emotional!
I also wanted to say that it is a shame that anyone (teachers, no less!) would tell you that your writing is wrong. But I believe such things happen. In college I had some brutal professors who crushed my spirit, but only temporarily.
Also, I’ve enjoyed re-reading your poems tonight. That last one has so many great licks, such as:
disappointments inspire
push onward or settle for less
Disappointments do inspire. I know they do for me. Which is why failure is such an important part of success.
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Erin, enjoyed your poems particularly the first one about the funeral service for your grandfather. The images are so clear.
The second poem with Death and its “tar-dipped wings” was another great image.
Hope you continue writing. Like yb says, listen to the people who support you in what your write and the improvement of your work. Ignore the people who say things like, “Your writing is wrong” or “That will never sell.” Your writing is about you and your expression.
Good luck.
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cbg, this is amazing.
you are so talented and i am so happy to call you my cbg. ❤ :]
i love you.
love, your cbg-muffin.
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I am in awe that four years comes down on this one night. i am excited that this puts me one step closer to my new life.
As for disappointment, everyone feels it, but i am trying to have a really optimistic view on my life. It takes a lot of work to be mad at the world. I met someone new who loves to love and i am learning to love everything for what it offers me, even disappointment or pain.
My mother loves “tar-dipped wings” as well. I feel like it just provided an intense visual representation because of the negative repercussions of tar, cigarettes and the like, and the heavy/hot feeling and the rough texture. It seems to be more difficult to explain why i choose the word.
While my teachers may not have all been supportive, i have immensely supportive friends. not many have commented here but my facebook is covered in their comments. It’s exciting that i can share this with my friends and have them be able to appreciate them
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Erin I’m so glad you shared this with me. Indeed, being mad at the world takes a LOT more enegry. But usually and hopefully it’s the realists first step to optimism.
Everything posses a particle of truth- a particle which cannot be pained or cause pain. Seek out the intangible, and live to bring out creation in its purest form.
I am excited to see where this current stepping stone [graduation] takes you next. You’re a woman of heart, soul and mind, continue forward in an ever ascending direction.
*
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I still can’t believe you are out of high school. Where does the time go. I’m so excited for you and am there in spirit. Optimism is the way to go. I wouldn’t say I’m a total optimist, but do lean toward the positive. You’ve got it right…way to much work to hold on to anger, disappointment, sadness over long periods of time. But what a relief to be able to write about the hard emotions. Thanks for sharing your poetry with us on red Ravine, Erin. Glad that your friends have been supportive, too, and have read your work. Only the beginning. Have fun at graduation! Let us know how it goes.
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Erin,
My dad died a few months ago. Your poem “Fourteen Dozen Roses” reminded me of how I felt at his funeral. It’s surreal…you’re there, and you’re not there. Your body goes through the motions, your mind knows what’s happening, and yet…it doesn’t.
That’s how your poem read to me. Thanks.
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I definitely understand the surreal nature of funerals. part of you, the part that’s weeping, knows it’s reality. another part of you has not accepted the fact that it is over. I hope knowing other people have felt similarly has provided some comfort.
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Ginkgo has been around for 170 million years in some form or another, and there’s been plenty of evolution since that time. Here’s a graphic if you’re interested: http://www.xs4all.nl/~kwanten/evolution.htm
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Such pure poetry. Love how you tangled your Grandfathers Alzheimer’s’ disease with his favorite plant. Ginkgo, is the memory plant. He was a wonderful man & I loved his sense of humor & the tie that was selected for his viewing. You have been blessed, Erin. I am certain he is looking down at you with such pride & I’m certain he would approve of the tattoo.
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Erin,
I am very impressed with your maturity in understanding that the beauty of individual expression far outweighs the need to fit someone else’s expectation of cookie cutter work. I see this in your poetry, in the daily things you do, and in who you are. You are unique, and that is validated by your circle of friends and family who all love you.
i liked all the poems but i was stuck most by your comment about people being satisfied with being mediocre and achieving nothing. To me that speaks to people not being interested in finding their inner spark, and doing something that truly inspires them. Perhaps it is the fear of failure that holds them back. Perhaps no one in their life touched them to be inquisitive, creative, or motivated to self-discovery. Perhaps they were beaten down with the notion that fitting in and being the same as everyone else was more important to self expression. I am glad you are not satisfied to just be like everyone else, fitting in according to someone else’s definition, and that you are not satisfied to just be mediocre. This dissatisfaction will be a very good quality as you pursue your dreams.
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I came back to read and catch up on this comment thread on Erin’s piece. Some amazing comments here. Fascinating link from Colin on the ginkgo, filled with incredible detail. He’s obviously done a ton of research on the plant. Some great visuals there. Even knowing all of those details, the ginkgo, for me, holds a magical and spiritual quality.
diddy, what was the tie at his funeral? I’m curious now. And I wondered, like you, if there were any ginkgos on the land the family home was on.
reccos62, I like the idea of dissatisfaction being a good quality to have. That we don’t have to settle for the way things are. We can always aspire to better ourselves, to reach for our dreams. No matter our age, no matter how young, or old.
Erin, I saw that your graduation went well. Beautiful photos of you on your FB page. Thank you for writing with us on red Ravine. Keep filling that poetry folder with poems. I hope you’ll come back and give us an update when you get to Temple. I’d love to read what it’s like from your perspective. Maybe you’ll want to write another piece your first year in Philadelphia. Inspiration.
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I can’t say anything about the tie choice at the funeral because I chose not to see him before they closed the casket.
Speaking for myself, I have felt like I have had to fight to be more than mediocre. Our school has fallen into the habit of teaching to the test but because of the classes I took, getting advanced was truly not that difficult. I was challenged regularly in my advanced ap calc class, but aside from the stress of a long paper, i never really struggled. It was easy to get by.
As far as I’m aware, there are no ginkgoes on the land. He did plant many throughout Harrisburg, though.
My collection is always growing. I’m sure my experiences at temple will provide many poems.
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Like QM, I wanted to thank you for being a guest on red Ravine. Your energy is so vibrant, it sings through your words.
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ERIN, altho I have seen these all before I still love them n I love what u do. You are an amazing writer n u better know it. I am so proud of u for finally doing this. U always said u didnt think u ever could n look at u now. I hope u continue to wright 4 a long time cuz I love ur poetry n how they have a real meaning. I cant wait to see what u right next n I hope I get my copy of everyone. Love u babe, ur bff licia
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The tie that Daddy wore was a “Save the Children” tie – one of those incredible ties that are drawn by kids – where the money goes to help orphans. This particular tie was red (his favorite color), with a big yellow school bus and kids on the bus. He adored kids, especially his grandchildren. As a matter of fact, I think that the kids are what kept him living so many years after Mom died, something for which I can never possibly thank them enough! And I have no doubt that he’s cheering you on right now, Big E!
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AL, that’s one cool tie. Thanks for coming back and commenting on that. I like that it was red with drawings by the kids. I bet you’ll be thinking of him this Father’s Day.
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I think of him on most days – he was one heck of a guy. I sometimes think that he would have liked to have lived much, much longer so that he could see how these kids turned out – and wouldn’t he be proud?
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He would have been VERY proud. I think he probably knows. I bet his Spirit is up there, smiling down, watching over and guiding his children and grandchildren.
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[…] Lupowitz writes about New Mexico cottonwoods in What’s Happened To The Corrales Bosque? And in Fourteen Dozen Roses: The World As The Jungle It Is, Erin Robertson shares her poetry and explains how her tattoo of a ginkgo leaf makes her feel […]
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[…] -related to posts: lack of oxygen haiku, Georgia Pine Over My Grandmother’s Grave, WRITING TOPIC — TREES, Spirits In The Bosque — Patrick Dougherty Leaves His Mark On Albuquerque, Tales Of A Prodigious Cottonwood, Excavating Memories, virgin cottonwood haiku, Fourteen Dozen Roses: The World As The Jungle It Is […]
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[…] -related to posts: Does Poetry Matter?, and Erin’s first piece on red Ravine — Fourteen Dozen Roses: The World As The Jungle It Is […]
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