A loving tribute to Mom, Dad and their poetry

March 19, 2024 — Recently reading through some notes on “interviews” I conducted with my mother and father many years ago, I was reminded of some of the traits they shared that may at least partly underlie their attraction to each other. They were shy, bright children who excelled in school. They both had large families, although my Dad was so much younger than his nearest sibling, that he was like an only child. 

My mother was bold among her group of siblings and friends in the tropical Guaico neighborhood on the island of Trinidad, where she was born. She was the leader of many games, telling stories and organizing performances. I’m not sure who comprised the audience, but outdoor, imaginary play ruled the day in the times before television. She joked that her older brother Cyril’s journal often began with “Barbara gave a concert.” I’m guessing he told her this. Perhaps the older siblings were among the audience, but I forgot to ask. 

My father recalls playing games on the Montreal streets of his working class neighborhood with other children, like hide and seek and tag, rollerskating and ice skating not too far from home. And he told the story of how his piano teacher died after he had only a single lesson. He says that’s the reason he didn’t continue the lessons, for fear of “killing” yet another instructor. Mom and Dad each had a good sense of humor. I think it can’t be overstated how much more fun life is with a good sense of humor. Both of them were also unfailingly positive. I think of my Dad, up until his final days, when he was still able to answer us. I’d ask him how he was feeling: “Could be better, could be worse.” He could sometimes barely get the words out. 

The storytelling foretold the writer within my Mom. My Dad kept journals starting at least in high school. I’ve yet to dive in and read through them, but I’m sure to learn new things about him and I look forward to this. His handwriting was so different then (so much better, ha) that I didn’t recognize it, but after reading some of it, I realized they are his. 

For today’s blog post, I searched through some old files to find a few poems authored by my parents to share. The ones by Mom were written by her as a student at McGill University in Montreal, Canada, and published in the student newspaper under her pen name, Anarkali. Dad’s poems were most likely written in the 2000s, from what I can tell.

I hope you enjoy them. I think this would have made them happy. Mom passed in November 2019 (it’s hard to believe it’s been over four years, especially with all the wacky COVID years included) and Dad, not even a year ago, in June 2023.

This is a tribute to them as writers, creatives, and it seems, romantics. I am definitely their daughter and I send my love and appreciation to them “somewhere out there.” 

the moon and you

You hold the Moon in your hands for a while …
You are ecstatically happy
Joyous delirium pervades your whole being.
You are intoxicated with the sheer Joy of being alive
But you grasp your treasure too lightly,
The Moon melts in your hands
And there is nothing left for you
But a wisp of fragrance
And a misty memory …
And a wishful yearning for what might have been
All is lost …
Life is an elusive Dream. 

love

A silhouette in the desert by night,
With a soft wind blowing,
A profile … vague,
Yet a fascinating vision of Beauty
In the wasted desert. 

the moon and you and love by Anarkali (pen name for Barbara Mahase)

DREAMS

I see your face through seven almond trees,
lips smiling, eyes aglow with grace and trust.
Your silver robe is rustling in the breeze;
I follow through the forest as I must.

Your ties with nature please my pining heart.
Your body’s beauty shines among the leaves.
Your wondrous presence gives my soul a start— Oh, what a sylvan image my mind weaves!

You’re standing in a field of yellow roses
that stretch for miles beyond the northern sky,
and though the rain falls fiercely, one supposes
a miracle of dreams that keeps you dry.

Your long, dark hair flows into forest leaves,
your arms are one with trunks of sapling birch,
and in your rooted splendor one perceives
a symbol for a wildwood pagan church. 

A HAPPY SONNET

Responding to my daughter’s sweet request
to write “A Happy Sonnet” — that’s the caption —
my thoughts turn first to how her birth was blessed,
for she appeared despite the contraception.
From birth she was a comfort, very much
like gentle rain upon a forest lea
that nurtures growth in all things that it touches —
expanding spheres of selfless love in me.
Prized daffodils bloom briskly in the spring,
surrounded by a kind environment —
the kind that Gail’s demeanor deftly brings. 
Red-yellow stars proclaim her heaven sent
as blue stars light her beauty from above,
encircling her with galaxies of love. 

DREAMS and A HAPPY SONNET by Hy Rodman

Images: Courtesy of the Rodman collection 1. Barbara and Hy Rodman 2. Hy on his tricycle 

I leave you this week with tears in my eyes and a tug on my heart strings. I would be honored if you want to share some of your own poetry with me to possibly feature in a future blog post. 

I’m interested in interviewing other children’s picture book authors, especially those of you who are self-published, for my blog. I’ll put some calls out on social media. I’d love to hear from you, help promote you, and learn from you.