Over at his Nana’s house yesterday, Gman decided he would write some poetry – which you can read on his blog – and P (my much-beloved stepfather) mentioned that his father used to write poems and that he had a folder of his poetry. His dad would write poems on the train, and then painstakingly type them up on a manual typewriter. A labour of love, for sure. I don’t know much about P’s father – aside from the fact that he was a grocer by trade, and that he had been a prisoner of war in WWII. But reading his poetry, I felt a connection. His words conveyed the fact that he was a keen observer of life; a spiritual man; a thinker. It made me wish that I had known him.
One poem, in particular, touched my heart. It is called “On Giving”:
For me, this is a beautiful summing up of the practice of egoless generosity. I particularly love these lines:
Gifts of money, most can spare
Gifts of time – or love- more rare.
Self too often intervenes,
Mars the beauty of the scene.
When we think ourselves most right
Oft ’tis then we’ve lost our sight,
Blinded by our self-esteem,
We lose our soul, ‘tho vent our spleen.