This blogging game
Well, this blogging game is not the easiest, is it? I have no idea how to delete the areas left over from deleted images. One day, my page will look like I want it to look, but until then, please bear with me as I learn!
I'm into the third week of term and already things are tough. I missed a lecture on Wednesday, but I had a good reason. My Dad passed away in May after a couple of months in hospital, and we scattered his ashes on Wednesday 20th October 2010. The day proved to be not the torture I expected, but a beautiful day to let him go and find peace.
The boatman told us the River Severn goes on to become part of the Bristol Channel, then out into the Atlantic Ocean. Eventually, this water joins the Indian Ocean and goes on to become one with other oceans of the world - something to do with the Gulf Stream. So it felt like Dad was going to become one with the air as his ashes were scattered, one with the water as they entered the water, and once in the world's oceans maybe he will become part of the land again. Where on Earth will there be a place where he is not? And as long as we remember him, he will always be a part of us, too.
After a Memorial Service on Sunday, I hope I'll be able to start focussing on my writing again. It's been a tough to be a creative writer when the last thing I've felt was creative. Then I remember that even in the toughest times in hospital, Dad wrote his poetry whenever the inspiration hit him, and on whatever paper he could see if he couldn't reach his notebooks. How could it be harder for me than it must have been for Dad? If that doesn't inspire me to carry on, I don't know what will.
So, flaws and all, here goes...
2 comments by 1 or more people
This is a beautifully written account of scattering your father’s ashes.
I’m very sorry this has happened. It is hard on you.
What was your father’s poetry like?
09 Nov 2010, 13:53
Thanks for your comment. Dad’s loss continues to be hard for all of us. It’s his birthday on Wednesday, the first we won’t be celebrating – although I’m sure all of us will be wishing him a happy birthday wherever he is.
Dad’s poetry was always written in Punjabi and was varied. He wrote poems relating to life, like poems about his mother and how her love varied between her children, about being away from India, poems about births, deaths, marriages – you name it, he probably wrote about it. He also wrote religious poetry and songs, some of them devotional.
The words he chose were always very different, very poetic, very deep in meaning and often very obscure. Poetry for the discerning, always very sophisticated. Lucky for me, he taught me to read and write Punjabi when I was about 11-12 years old. I hated it then, but I feel very blessed now. If he hadn’t taught me, I wouldn’t be able to appreciate the beauty of his poetry today. That would have been my loss for certain.
I want to try to put some of his poems together and see if I can get something published for the first anniversary of his death. Trouble is, I don’t know where to start. And I don’t know if I’d be able to translate some of the more difficult ones – or if, indeed, translation should be attempted in case too much is lost in translation. Maybe I should talk to Maureen about her experiences of translation.
15 Nov 2010, 22:42
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