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Joseph Bathanti: Steady Daylight
Today in Heaven,
my father turned 105.
Finally working steady daylight
he’s got it knocked:
8 to 4,
double-time-and-a-half –
no asbestos,
no shoveling slag
on the open hearth;
no depending from a boom crane,
6 degrees, in sleet;
no boss –
13 weeks vacation annually
Kingdom Come.
The Union up here takes zero shit.
Home well before dark,
traffic mellow, blue sky,
nothing but green signals;
plenty of time, once home –
perfect parking spot
right in front of the house –
to sit a minute, smoke a Camel,
sip an Iron City pony
beneath the olive and lemon trees
he planted when he first arrived –
368 days after my mother
(to celebrate their 59th anniversary).
They grow well in Heaven –
mild weather year-round,
like Puglia,
save for snow on Holy Days & Feasts.
He shaves and showers in the cellar.
My mother has his clothes for the party
laid out on their bed:
khakis, short-sleeved
summer white shirt.
The party’s at Aunt Lu’s,
everybody there – at each stage
of their lives, concurrently.
Another time,
this would have struck them as outlandish.
Not now.
They were poor; they suffered.
Now they’re happy.
Money’s not an issue.
No one gets sick.
No one gets hurt.
The neighborhood’s safe.
Everyone gets along. At all times,
they act reasonably.
Light surrounds them.
It’s that kind of place.
Angels from the ether
bear platters of ravioli
from Groceria Italiano
in Bloomfield; sausage
from Joe Grasso on Larimer Avenue;
lemon ice from Moio’s;
sfogliatelles from Barsotti;
Parmesan, aged for eternity;
scungilli from Umberto’s Clam House
that Uncle Ralph scored from a Detroit crony;
wine from the wedding feast at Canaan.
My mother made the artichokes
and baked my dad’s favorite –
egg custard pie,
every single candle: 105.
Joe looks good,” says my mother.
Says my dad, “Gimme a kiss, Rose.”
With no hesitation, she dips in –
long brown hair,
brown eyes, red lipstick,
sassy 40s dress,
halo hovering like lilac.
My dad’s taken to rope sandals
and straw fedora.
They’re movie stars.
She sits on his lap.
He looks at his watch.
“Tomorrow’s another working day,” he says, and winks.
They form a Conga line
and weave the rooms and halls,
up through the bedrooms,
into the attic, singing:
“Grandma’s Lye Soap.”
Aunt Margaret deals Blackjack
at the big dining room table.
All the food is still out,
but they decide to cook again:
peppers and eggs, hot sausage.
Black Velvet, the blonde
in the black velvet dress
and pearls on its label,
turns itself in trickles
upside down
into shot glasses.
Chubby Checker on the turntable,
the kids doing The Twist.
Uncle Pippi starts with the Italian songs.
Papa twirls Aunt Theresa
in a Tarantella
and, suddenly winter, it begins to snow.
Here they are, saying goodbye:
time to go home,
kissing, bundling babies,
shackling chains to cars
My father helps his mother,
Maria Cristina Bochicchio,
down the steep stone stairs
to Lemington Avenue.
He’s not seen her since he was 5 –
a hundred years (cento anni).
On his right arm,
his hammer arm,
is tattooed an American eagle,
arrows in its beak,
above which unfurls Mother.
He must’ve gotten it in the Army.
How could I have never asked?
Angelo stands to his knees in snow,
and plays his lost violin.
~~~~
Joseph Bathanti was North Carolina Poet Laureate (2012-14) and the recipient of the North Carolina Award in Literature, the state’s highest civilian honor. The author of over twenty books, Bathanti is McFarlane Family Distinguished Professor of Interdisciplinary Education at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina, and is the recipient of the Board of Governors Excellence in Teaching Award. He was inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame in October of 2024.
Copyright 2024 Joseph Bathanti. Previously published in The Sun
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So fabulous! I must have somehow missed this when it was originally published on VP but now I’m given another chance by this generous format/ this little “Anthology.”
So much to say and love here, how the poem is brimming with life, seems so gigantic in its realization like Veronese’s “Wedding at Cana” in the Louvre. Thankyou Joseph and Michael, you have added a whole life to another day I’ve been blessed to receive and have just begun.
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Joseph is a poet of beautiful craft and large conscience.
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I love this poem. I hope I get served ravioli in heaven❤️
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Me too! Heaven surely must have great food!
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I love this poem. I hope I get served ravioli in heaven❤️
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Thank you all so much for these lovely and generous comments and for taking the time to post them. So very much appreciated.
Good luck with you work and peace and all very best to you and yrs. or the holidays and into the new year,
Joseph
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Well-said, Joseph. Thank you!
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This poem reads like a movie–so moving. Bravo!
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It does work when you read on blog.
-the Adventure continues….Mike
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Mike: Not getting any website when you click on this.
-the Adventure continues….Mike
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What a find, this poem! How intensely powerful!
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I don’t know whether there is a season for dying, or a season for the afterlife, or a season for contemplation. I seem to read (and write) a lot about the dead, families, the joy, the tears, the laughter, the togetherness… perhaps Thanksgiving brought it on. LOVED the poem.
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Transcendent, with connective love in the details, names, and places here in his previous world. The other comments on this poem are wonderful. Thanks. Oh, and the final line with its lost violin being played. So haunting.
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How beautifully this captures the ethos of that generation. And I love how the poem dismisses the problem of temporal logic–what age are we in heaven?–with a flick of verbiage: “everybody there – at each stage / of their lives, concurrently.” So simple.
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Joseph, I love this poem so much. I have thought many times how old my parents would be on their birthdays, but you take this to a new level of wishing and complexity in the land of forever.
I love so many lines, especially “ halo gaming like lilac” – so beautiful, love the As and Os and Hs, ohooo. Ahhhh, hmmm. Almost like a hymn… he whole poem is like a hymn and a prayer sent up, up, up right into your parents arms.
I’d love to read more of your work!
Ann Bookman
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Unbelievably moving, Joseph! So damned artful in its mask if artlessness. Have a great holiday!
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Great to wake up to. Starting day with a smile. It’s been awhile.
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A beautiful recollection, full of his soul.
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I agree!
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gre
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