This is the second poem about my family history.
Farallon Light (Version 4)
The Farallon Islands bite the fogbound ocean
a marathon’s distance from the Golden Gate.
Four men and two women have made the swim.
The odor from millennia of bird shit,
from gulls and murres, cormorants and petrels,
announces itself a mile or more offshore.
My father spent his childhood on those rocks.
His father kept the lighthouse. I knew my dad
in pieces. He saw the Battle of the Bulge.
He drove a gas truck through a burning village.
And at his funeral several homeless men
wearing clean shirts and sober, paid their respects.
The Natives called them the Islands of the Dead.
The lethal tides destroyed ships by the hundreds
on wolf-tooth crags, ringing the isles with wreckage.
The Farallones formed my dad. Speaking of them,
far and alone, a light gleamed in his eyes.
For him, that hellish place was paradise.
Farallon Light (Version 3)
A marathon’s distance from the Golden Gate,
the Farallon Islands bite the fogbound ocean.
Four men and two women have made the swim.
The odor from millennia of bird shit,
from gulls and murres, cormorants and petrels,
announces itself a mile or more offshore.
The Natives called them Islands of the Dead.
The lethal foam made shipwrecks by the hundreds
on wolf-tooth crags, ringing the isles with remnants.
My father spent his childhood on those rocks.
His father kept the lighthouse. I knew my dad
in pieces. He saw the Battle of the Bulge.
He drove a gas truck through a burning village.
And at his funeral several homeless men,
wearing clean shirts and sober, paid their respects.
The Farallones formed him. When he spoke of them,
he smiled. A gleam of light came to his eyes.
For him that hellish place was paradise.
—————————
Edits:
S1L3: Four men and two women have made the swim. > Just four men and two women have made the swim. > Four men and two women have made the swim.
S2L2: His father kept the lighthouse. I know so little > His father kept the lighthouse. I just know pieces > His father kept the lighthouse. I knew my dad
S2L3: about my father. He fought in the Battle of the Bulge, > about my dad. He fought in the Battle of the Bulge, > of my dad. He saw the Battle of the Bulge. > in pieces. He saw the Battle of the Bulge.
S2L4: and drove a gas truck through a burning village. > He drove a gas truck through a burning village.
S2L5: At his funeral a half-dozen homeless men, > At his funeral half a dozen homeless men, > And at his funeral several homeless men,
Farallon Light (Version 2)
Jagged, sharp as the teeth of a wolf’s jaw,
the Farallon Islands bite the fogbound ocean,
forbidding as Odysseus’ crashing rocks,
a marathon away from the Golden Gate.
Four men and two women have made the swim.
The foul stench from millennia of bird shit,
gulls and murres, cormorants and petrels,
announces itself at least a mile offshore.
The Natives called them Islands of the Dead.
With swirling foam, cruel crags, and howling wind,
hundreds of shipwrecks ringed the isles with remnants,
as though they had been haunted by heartless Sirens.
So a lighthouse was built atop the highest peak.
My dad spent several of his childhood years
living on those God-forsaken rocks.
His father served as one of the lighthouse keepers.
I never knew Dad’s parents, but I’ve seen portraits.
My grandpa was a sailor from Australia;
my nan a dumpy, dour Victorian
from Glasgow. In no photos are they smiling.
My father rarely talked about himself.
He died when I was young, before I knew
the questions to ask that he could help me answer.
Occasionally he let a secret slip.
He fought in France and the Battle of the Bulge.
He drove a gas truck through a burning village.
At his funeral, a half-dozen homeless men,
wearing clean shirts and sober, paid their respects.
His joyless memories and other demons
kept much of my father’s life submerged in darkness.
But when he spoke about the Farallon Islands,
growing spuds, no schools, no shops, tinned food,
water barged in, gathering eggs and clams,
somehow learning to read and write, do figures,
he smiled. A gleam of light came to his eyes.
For him, that hellish place was paradise.
Farallon Light (Version 1)
Jagged, sharp as the teeth in a wolf’s jaw,
the Farallon Islands bite the fogbound ocean,
forbidding as Odysseus’ crashing rocks,
a marathon away from the Golden Gate.
Four men and two women have made the swim.
The odor from millennia of bird shit,
gulls and murres, cormorants and petrels,
announces itself at least a mile offshore.
The Natives called them Islands of the Dead.
The first European to visit was Francis Drake.
The Spanish were next, then Russians with Aleut bondmen,
chasing the fur seals almost to extinction.
The Gold Rush brought battalions of egg hunters.
In the swirling foam, cruel rocks, and howling wind,
hundreds of shipwrecks ringed the rocks with remnants,
as though the islands were haunted by heartless Sirens.
So a lighthouse was built on the tip of the highest peak.
My dad spent several of his childhood years
living on those God-forsaken rocks.
His father served as one of the lighthouse keepers.
I never knew Dad’s parents, but I’ve seen portraits.
My grandpa was a sailor from Australia.
My nan, a dumpy, dour Victorian
from Glasgow. In no photos are they smiling.
My father rarely talked about himself.
He died when I was young, before I knew
the questions to ask that he could help me answer.
Occasionally he let a secret slip.
He fought in France and the Battle of the Bulge,
and drove a gas truck through a burning village.
At his funeral, a half-dozen homeless men,
wearing clean shirts and sober, paid their respects.
His joyless memories and other demons
kept much of my father’s life submerged in darkness.
But when he spoke about the Farallon Islands,
growing spuds, no schools, no shops, tinned food,
water barged in, gathering eggs and clams,
somehow learning to read and write, do figures,
he smiled. A gleam of light came to his eyes.
For him that hellish place was paradise.
Farallon Light
Linear Mode
