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father apologising to his son
Posted by: Alistair (---.server.ntli.net)
Date: October 26, 2004 07:38PM

trying to find a poem. All I can remember is that it is a father apologising to his son (child?) for expecting him to act like an adult when he is just a child. It is a very well known poem and I'm sure lots of people will know it, Thanks


Re: looking for poem
Posted by: lg (---.ca.charter.com)
Date: October 26, 2004 09:08PM

Alistair, without a line or title to the poem, no matter how well known it may be, it will probably be hard to find. Do you know ANY lines from the poem?

[www.google.com] />
Les



Post Edited (10-26-04 20:10)


Re: looking for poem
Posted by: ilza (---.162.243.237.user.ajato.com.br)
Date: October 26, 2004 10:23PM

I believe I know this poem ( but cannot quite remember the words to it)

- the child ask him to come to play, etc, but the father doesn't - he is busy somehow

and only at the end of the day he realizes what he has done ...
and - if I am not mistaken - it ends with the father saying (twice) something like
- I asked (or demanded) too much ...

if that is the one, I am still trying to find it ( somewhere inside my mind ... )


Re: looking for poem
Posted by: Florence Dyck (---.ok.shawcable.net)
Date: October 26, 2004 11:27PM

I believe the first part is:
Why hurry little river, why hurry to the stream
There's nothing there for you to do
But to sink into the blue
And for ever forgotten be.

There's nothing on that shore
But the tides for evermore
And the faint and far-off line
Where the winds across the brine
Forever roam
And never find a home.


Re: looking for poem
Posted by: Alistair (---.server.ntli.net)
Date: October 27, 2004 07:07AM

Dear Ilza,
Thanks it is definitely the poem you mean. I'm in the same position as you. I know I even have it in a book somewhere but cant find it. If you can remember it I would be very grateful
thanks


Re: looking for poem
Posted by: Alistair (---.server.ntli.net)
Date: October 27, 2004 07:08AM

Dear Florence,
Thanks but I dont recognise the poem you sent


Re: looking for poem
Posted by: Alistair (---.server.ntli.net)
Date: October 27, 2004 07:11AM

Dear Les, thanks for response. Cant remember anything precise about the poem but I think Ilza (below) has the right one in mind


Re: looking for poem
Posted by: marian2 (---.range81-152.btcentralplus.com)
Date: October 27, 2004 08:59AM

There was a thread on this theme a while ago and it included the Harry Chapin song 'Cats In the Cradle':

My child arrived just the other day;
Came to the world in the usual way
But there were planes to catch and bills to pay.
He learned to walk while I was away.
He was talkin' 'fore I knew it.
And as he grew he said,
"I'm gonna be like you, Dad.
You know I'm gonna be like you."

Chorus :
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man on the moon.
"When you comin' home ?"
"Son, I don't know when.
We'll get together then.
You know we'll have a good time then."

Well, my son turned ten just the other day.
He said , "Thanks for the ball, Dad. Come on, let's play.
Could you teach me to throw ?" I said, "Not today.
I got a lot to do." He said, "That's okay."
And he walked away and he smiled and he said,
"You know,
I'm gonna be like him, yeah.
You know I'm gonna be like him.Chorus

Well, he came from college just the other day,
So much like a man I just had to say,
"I'm proud of you. Could you sit for a while ?"
He shook his head and he said with a smile,
"What I'd really like, Dad, is to borrow the car keys.
See you later. Can I have them please ?"

Chorus :
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man on the moon.
"When you comin home, Son ?"
"I don't know when.
We'll get together then.
You know we'll have a good time then."

I've long since retired, my son's moved away.
I called him up just the other day.
"I'd like to see you, if you dont mind."
He said, "I'd love to, Dad, if I could find the time.
You see my new job's a hassle and the kids have the flu,
But it's sure nice talkin' to you, Dad.
It's been sure nice talkin' to you."

And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me,
He'd grown up just like me.
My boy was just like me.
(Yeah, yeah, yeah)

Chorus "

That's probably not what Alastair is looking for, but if someone could find that thread again, it might have the poem he is looking for on it. - I can never find anything in here over a week old.


not yet
Posted by: ilza (---.162.243.237.user.ajato.com.br)
Date: October 27, 2004 10:25AM

it is a torment not to remember the words to a poem

I have all the rhythm of the poem in my head,
it is been some 15 years since I last read it,
I do have it somewhere,
I know in the end the boy kisses the father goodnight,
and only then comes the "I am sorry-like" sentence,
although he does not address the child,
but it is a kind of mea-culpa feeling ...
-
I am driving bananas here !


Re: not yet
Posted by: Alistair (---.server.ntli.net)
Date: October 27, 2004 10:53AM

Keep trying please! I'm 99% sure you are on the right track


Re: looking for poem
Posted by: rikki (---.carlnfd1.nsw.optusnet.com.au)
Date: October 27, 2004 07:17PM

This isn't the poem you're looking for, but maybe on a similar theme -



Making a Man

Hurry the baby as fast as you can,
Hurry him, worry him, make him a man.
Off with his baby clothes, get him in pants,
Feed him on brain foods and make him advance.

Hustle him, soon as he's able to walk,
Into a grammar school; cram him with talk.
Fill his poor head full of figures and facts,
Keep on a-jamming them in till it cracks.

Once boys grew up at a rational rate,
Now we develop a man while you wait.
Rush him through college, compel him to grab
Of every known subject a dip and a dab.

Get him in business and after the cash,
All by the time he can grow a moustache.
Let him forget he was ever a boy,
Make gold his god and its jingle his joy.

Keep him a-hustling and clear out of breath,
Until he wins -- nervous prostration and death.

Nixon Waterman


Re: looking for poem
Posted by: rikki (---.carlnfd1.nsw.optusnet.com.au)
Date: October 27, 2004 07:22PM

and this one -



The Toys

My little Son, who looked from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobeyed,
I struck him, and dismissed
With hard words and unkissed,
(His Mother, who was patient, being dead).
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.

And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-veined stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach,
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I prayed
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood,
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
"I will forgive them for their childishness."

Coventry Patmore


Re: looking for poem
Posted by: marian2 (---.range81-152.btcentralplus.com)
Date: October 28, 2004 04:41AM

The Patmore rikki posted was the one I had in mind - but now Ilza's reminded me of another one. I'll think some more


Alistair
Posted by: ilza (---.162.243.237.user.ajato.com.br)
Date: October 29, 2004 09:49PM

this is the one I was looking for - I do hope it is the one you were looking for !
anyway, I thank you, for I am glad I found it
( I hardly remembered the words ... ) - it is not a poem, but still it is lovely
.
Father Forgets
W. Livingston Larned

Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.

These are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.

At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, "Good-bye, Daddy!" and I frowned, and said in reply, "Hold your shoulders back!"

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your socks. I humiliated you before your friends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Socks were expensive, and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!

Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in, timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. "What is it you want?" I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither...and then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, reprimanding--this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. It was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.

And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of yours was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me goodnight. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt here, ashamed!

It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy. I will chum with you, suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual, "He is nothing but a boy, a little boy!"

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your bed, I see that you are still a little boy. Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.



Re: Alistair
Posted by: Alistair (---.server.ntli.net)
Date: October 30, 2004 07:01AM

Dear Ilza, thank you very much. This is the piece I was looking for. I appreciate the effort you went to as I wanted this to print this out and put on the wall as I have a 5 year old son. When my patience is running thin with him hopefully I will be able to look at this & remember he is not much more than a baby really & he has the rest of his life to grow up
Thanks again
Alistair


Re: Alistair
Posted by: ilza (---.162.243.237.user.ajato.com.br)
Date: October 30, 2004 07:12AM

I am so glad that was the one !
it was the last line that "brought it back"to me

It was first printed in 1936, iHow to win friends and influence people - by Dale Carnegie
then republished August 1945 - Reader's Digest
People's Home Journal - circa 1940
and from there on became very popular

I do know a little about the author ( now that I know what we are talking about)
- he was a famous illustrator, poet and journalist, first name William,
he published some advertising books circa 1925, and (I have to check this out to see if I am not mistaken) he lived to be 80.

He didn't have a very happy life, though ... his first wife was poisoned,
and her death ruled as suicide

I have a bio somewhere - "stored" , not filed . . . and if I find it I will copy you.

anyway, I am amazed to read it again and find out I still like it
just as much as I first did !




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