Friday, January 22, 2010

Poetry Friday - Drinking With My Father in London

I'm a big fan of the blog How a Poem Happens. Each week a poet shares a poem and answers questions about its construction. Each interview provides a peek into a writer's soul and speaks volumes about process. What have I learned? Inspiration can come from the strangest of places. No one writes in the same manner. Revision is the hallmark of a good poem. And more ...

This week I'm sharing a poem I read back in December that is still with me.
by Philip Pardi

With his mate, Wilfred, who was dying,
I discussed ornithology as best I could
given the circumstances, my father flushed
and silent, a second pint before me,
my fish and chips not yet in sight.
Condensation covered the windows
and in the corner a couple played
tic-tac-toe with their fingers.

Read the poem in its entirety. Don't miss Pardi's interview, as his answers are quite insightful and inspiring.
The round up is being hosted by the inimitable Liz Scanlon at Liz in Ink. Do stop by and take in all the great poetry being shared this week. Before you go, be sure to check out this week's poetry stretch results. Happy poetry Friday all!


  1. Thank you for sharing this site. New to me and one to visit.

  2. Oh, I'm glad you pointed me toward this poem, Tricia. And the interview. It set me to thinking about some of my own poems.

  3. I like that blog too! Great poem and fascinating interview.

  4. Oh, that was lovely. And what loving reassurance the father offered to his friend.

    Talking with poets is always a bracing experience; the interview was thought-provoking.

  5. I love this, AND that blog, which I think you've mentioned before but maybe I'll remember it this time???

  6. Another blog for the bulging GoogleReader!

    I LOVED the poem, especially the ending. Especially the ending.

  7. I can imagine that poem happening---every last detail of it. Seems like the sort of poem one should memorize and tuck away to bring out over a pint. Really satisfying and well-crafted in an unexpected way.

  8. Thank you for the poem. The sort of conversation I wish I would have and never do. Maybe I need different relatives. Or more birds. Or just more poems.