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Evra
Our grandma Evra was a trifle difficult.
If ever sound advice was needed she’d be there,
But quiet, not a word until a person asked,
And then she’d give it and you’d better listen ‘cause
She never gave it twice—save once, and I’ll get back
To that. Her special fun was baiting Grandma Bea,
The other one (on Papa’s side) who’d disagree
With one thing or another, be she right or wrong:
On whether Jesus really was a god, a martyr,
Or just a righteous man, or how to bake a cake.
And Evra’d hide a tiny guileless smile and say,
“Our Lord was just a natural sailor; look right here,
It’s written down,” and give the verse and then declare,
“A single jumbo egg is all you really need,”
And so it went, with Grandpa rolling up his eyes,
Laconic to the end, insisting he was just
Another victim—she’s the one who’d chosen him!—
But always telling with his smile, his heart, and bones
He’d loved her way back then and now and long before
His birth, and would until the day he died and far
Beyond. For what it’s worth, it took me many years
To figure out that stuff like this is rare beyond
Belief or twenty winning tickets in a row.
And I was slow, I guess, for only sometime later
I learned how underestimated Grandpa was.
She never claimed that she’d been blessed with second-sight,
But on a rather rainy Christmas Night when we
Were all together (‘cept, this time, for Bea) as was
The family custom in those years, a funny thing
Did happen. Bill, my older brother, slightly bored,
Was headed toward the door when she said, “Bill, don’t go!”
He looked at her, and then at Mom and Pop (who just
Looked back), she heaved herself straight up (and Grandpa frowned)
And said, “Stay here or else you’ll likely never hear
The end of me.” With that, he seemed to lose the will
To venture out in winter’s nasty chill, sat down
And seemed to come to terms with broken plans.
Turns out, those plans had much to do with one sweet girl
A mile away he’d never wed nor take to bed
Nor anything that really mattered. More than that,
We heard next day that some young man was killed about
The time that Bill was primed to leave, on that same street
That Bill was headed to. Some other soul went out
And met the truck that lost control on gravel roads
We take for granted. Evra never said a thing.
My grandpa, very quiet, shrugged as though he’d seen
It all before, and I could only sit and watch
As Bill, resentful more than any man before,
Grew quieter as days gave way to further days.
But looking back, I think I understand it more.
My brother sought his destiny, but was required
By stronger wills than his to set his dream aside.
A week or three went by, with him still mad or sad,
Not knowing why, and Mom would catch her mother’s eye,
Get nothing in return, and Grandpa said, “Just let
Him be; he’ll be all right, get over it like me.”
I never got to ask him what he meant by that,
But he was right about my brother. Bill went on
To fly a plane and earn a slice of local fame
And settle down with June and raise a crop of kids.
I skipped a part—or went too fast—about those weeks
Between the accident and Bill’s recovery.
A time or two I looked and there would Evra be,
Just looking at me closely but pretending not,
And I would try to stay aloof, affecting not
A thing was on my mind but boyish things. She saw
Right through me, though, and chucked my chin and coaxed a grin
And said, “You want to tell, I know you do. You’ll write
It down and show the world. You know I’m proud of you
For what you see and what you’ll do.” then kissed me on
That cheek of mine that’s never since felt truthful lips
Or breath or voice or loving fingertips so fine.
.
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C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India. His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.
A loving tribute, Mr. Anderson. I read it twice and
felt a pinch of envy for all sorts of reasons. Bravo.
But, a tribute to whom? Evra is an utterly fictional character. Of my grandmothers: one I never met; the other was nothing like that, though she may have had pretensions to fit that role.
I enjoyed this, CB, especially since I’ve experienced one of those almost supernatural moments when Death does his eenie, meenie, miny, mo and chooses the other guy.
A fine, touching three-dimensional portrait of grandma Evra.
Thanks for the read.
It was my pleasure, Paul. Man proposes, but God disposes.
The alexandrines in this poem flow smoothly, whether end-stopped or enjambed, and draw the reader in so naturally that he is compelled to read right to the end without stopping. This is not a common meter for English poetry, but here it is used without rhyme to tell more than a simple story. We are given six stanzas of complex and intertwined family history — highly localized, but with resonances that are universal.
A lesser poet would have given us a plain tale of premonition, and how it saved the life of a relative. But this piece describes a contentious and opinionated woman, her sometimes difficult but loving relationship with her husband, her grandson Bill’s deep disappointment over a missed meeting with a girl whom he loved, a hint of some untold story about Grandpa, Bill’s later life of success and happiness — and finally, the narrator’s deep need (even as a child) to tell the whole incident, and how that need was divined by Grandma, and how the poem itself was foreseen by her! Evra was indeed preternaturally gifted!
And all of this material is held together by an overarching sense of thwarted will, pain, destiny, and how what is fated works out its inescapable ends without our consent or willpower, even if a few of us have second sight and prophetic ability. The poem made me think of Thomas Hardy.
When I was very young I wrote these jejune lines:
There is only fate, and man, and time —
And of those three, the first and last have sway
Over poor man, and bend him to their will.
The memory of those lines came back to me when I read this outstanding poem by Kip Anderson.
K.A.N.D!
Shiver me timbers, Joe. I’ll know better in the future not to try to slip an alexandrine past you. BTW your “jejune lines” aren’t bad at all. There must be an infinite number of ways that that universal truth might be expressed. I’m glad that you chose the path of formalism, eschewing the path of darkness.
Happy to see some Alexandrines again! Well done!
If you are happy, Jared, then I am happy. I think I actually have a couple of alexandroids in storage. Sadly, I might never go to Harvard, MA again in this life.
The ease with which you write in meter and the way you can create a powerful sense of familiarity through incidental detail had me believing this was a deeply personal poem, but then you reveal in your reply to JD that Evra is a fictional character! It’s a remarkable but dangerous talent you have, Mr Anderson.
Well Shaun, you remarked and so it must be remarkable, but why is it dangerous? Always remember: fictive artifact, fictive artifact, fictive artifact … Writing in meter has become a habit — a good one, I hope. “Incidental details” have a dual function: they also fill space.