Shoshana Rockman | Commissioned Poetry

1. A father passes away

The General

He walked the perimeter of my teens
with a giant’s shuffle. Slow and heavy.
A tower. A distinguished bulk —
silver helmeted and military. Cardinal
cheeks floating amongst clouds.
We craned our necks for glimpses.

He left behind a half century wife —
three daughters. and a son.
A final flying towards peace.
Across oceans — to be inearthed,
at home. Sepulchred over there.
After grounding in Australia.

His place. His faith polished
daily with love. Reverence —
even as its keeper rusted. Hinged
upon bones and blood. Upon
ancient practices
and prayer.

My account of his eighty-three
years, relayed by his youngest
daughter — herself a battalion,
advancing. Our cavalries long ago
merged to rove midnight corners.
And cross open tracts of light.

Shoshannna wrote me this poem after my father passed away. She spent some time understanding who he was before magically conveying her understanding of hi through her beautiful poetry.
- Anonymous

2.A traumatic relationship breakdown

The Coven(ant)

1.How it appeared:

late night phone calls (overheard by me)
secrets SMSes (read by me)
email chains (discovered by me)
codes (deciphered by me)
vague excuses (excused by me)
eye contact (seen by me)
stifled laughter (about me)
beach walks (without me)
ocean swims (bikini style avoided by me)
camping trips (unbeknown to me)
fishing trips (he hated fish — queried by me)
boat licences (we don’t have a boat —
capsized by me)
drinking sessions (without me)
couple counselling (darkness for me)
anxiety (brewed in me)
family interventions (not requested by me)
a toiletry bag (emptied by me)
anonymous birthday presents (found by me)
close encounters (reported to me)
flirtations (endured by me)
children (shielded by me)

2.How it (was made to) disappear(ed):

They chose a modernized model.
A cauldron (still black, still cast iron) — but gas-lit.
Gas-operated, gas-fuelled and brimming with bubbles
of green denial. His coven
(mother, sisters, friends) gathered to stew-brew
their unfailing support in his time of (gr)/(n)eed.
They’d always been community-minded, charitable
and active in their support of the vulnerable groups,
particularly DV and DHS. (Women caring
for Women — their cause of choice.)
Now crones clustered and convened. Threw
their cloaks about him for shelter — or thicker shade.
And their new shiny hats. The brims, wider
than those in the story books, and prone
to obscuring longer views. And when their designer
glasses are smeared with frog spawn and bat shit,
vision blurs — They did offer me a pair to try,
suggested the right frames might assist —
might lessen
my anxiety, my obvious (mental) decline. My confusion.
Oh, I lost myself for a time in all that swilling —
all those f(r)ogs. Until I re-read Macbeth,
pointed out their warts —
and sniffed out the gas leaks.

Shoshanna wrote me this poem after my marriage breakdown, when I was having trouble putting the pieces together and processing what had happened. She really listened and wrote this piece which is so apt and heartfelt. It made me cry — and it made me laugh too. I read it over and over …
- Anonymous

3. A son grows up

72kg

My eldest leaped centre stage —
between the island bench and our table
I’m huge now. I weigh 72 kg he said.

I reeled back to my arrival
at the hospital doors, already pleading
for an epidural. My weight, when

they checked it — 72kg. Full of him.
His foetal peak. His accomplishment.
He dwindled upon cordlessness

to a still-impressive 4.2kg, and I, too,
dwindled without him, without
all that flesh and fluid he’d added on.

I lost the great balloon of myself. I heard
the hiss. Punctured like a pool toy, I shrunk
into something softly misshapen. Lacking.

Hilarious and apt!!
- Anonymous

COMMISSIONED POETRY

1. A father passes away

2.A traumatic relationship breakdown

3. A son grows up