The phantom aroma of spice, chocolate and mild earthy tones
Permeated his memory
As he sat next to a humidor stacked with Cohiba, Monte Crisco, CAO,
And Partagas 150: quite a rare cigar,
Ripened at least 25 years
Together they formed a living mass of binders, fillers
And sun aged wrappers
Coiled around remembrances of warmer days
When his father would sit in front of the fireplace
Or out by the lake
Rolling a puro around his fingers
Puffing out a cloud of smoke
Forming a variety of archetypal shapes,
As he spoke of matters fathers usually dismiss;
Evoking mystery and wonder
In even the most simple things
It was that time of year again
When memories placed a smile on the saddest face
And transformed it into an expression of joy
Even as it yearned for a connection
To renew a heart forever broken
It was that time of year again
To rotate his father’s “babies”
And to touch his fingertips again
Rearranging each one
Admiring their supple veins
Maturing to a luxurious golden patina
It was that time again,
His father’s birthday
A celebration of existence
A reaffirmation that nothing really dies,
That everything is constantly reborn
Even in the bouquet of a fine smoke
He would commemorate
His father's fleeting moment in time
With a Partagas 150, his favorite
He recalled how he said he would smoke
These only on his birthday
Since they were so opulent and scarce
So he torched up
Inhaling its fine eloquence and subtle aroma
Surrounded by a smoky miasma
And a vision of his father’s enduring presence
Jude- You touched a chord here; I'm sure not only with me. I always make it a point on New Years to go outside alone, look up at the stars and drink to my father. In the lines:
... he spoke of matters fathers usually dismiss;
Evoking mystery and wonder
In even the most simple things
you evoke the reason you honor the specialness of your father. Excellent and touching poem. - David
Stunning!!!
eloquent account full in rich detail, so rich it breaths a life of it's own here. you fill the reader in such a smooth way, it have us conjouring up memories and a time and a feeling....would make for a wonderful story
enjoyed!!!!
fine writing with such vivid detail, Jude. kept thinking of my Dad chewing on cigars when I was a kid. somehow don't think that's quite as elegant as this son's ritual of memory for his father. Dawn
I haven't smoked in over twenty five years
and here you come writing something so fantastic
Leaving me with the craving For a cigarro Cubano
Haven't tasted one since I stole one from my father
at the age of 15, smoked the whole thing on the roof
of a 6 story, tenament in Spanish Harlem, where in those days one could view the whole city, all the way downtown and Brooklyn. I enjoyed it and din't get sick, that was my first and last, Cuban maybe I enjoyed more because it was stolen....lol
Such wonderful memories! Jude, your father was a lucky man to have a son such as you.
Love,
annie
Reviewed by Andy Turner (Reader)
Reviewed on January 14, 2008
Makes the hairs on ones neck stand.
A mate of mine; he smells his fathers cigar smoke from time to time.
Indeed, third narrative works perfectly, not that you'll ever need advice.
A most moving dedication.
Memories and cigars...contemplation
and a vision with a lot of class...
I too enjoy a good cigar and I too
remember the aromas of my fathers smokes.
Excellent Jude!
My husband is a cigar smoker as was my father. You have captured my heart in this poem. I can smell the Monte Cristo and enjoy it's aroma just in reading this.
Your father is enjoying this honored tradition with you - I'm sure.
This is a most beautiful testament to your father and immortality, not only rich in the aroma of the Partagas 150, but also the sentiment expressed! Bless You! Jasmin Horst
It takes a great knowledge of cigars to write this, and of the father, son, relationship. I know nothing of fine cigars and their rich culture, only that my grandfather enjoyed his pipe as he trounced me in checkers. My father went cold turkey in the middle of a pack in a carton after twenty years. I admired him for that.
Stunning. This is so acutely imaged with very strong detail (that is, in itself, a powerfully evocative motif) and laced with such personal tenderness and affection that the Personal Pronoun seemed immaterial to me. In fact, putting it into the third person de-sentimentalises it for me, making it even more potent and powerful. All this coupled with (as witnessed by the comments below) the actuality of the unrivalled ability of smell, in particular, of all the senses to evoke memory such that it lives, builds this into one of your most knock-out creations: tangible and tactile. It is fantastic when a poem is effortlessly forged from it's purest molten source of personal experience because nothing can touch its inherent integrity. It is both a long poem (for you!) and cyclical, telling of its ongoing and never-ending place in your life's heart and experience. Fingertip to fingertip to fingertip, the fire lives on. This is Forese's Finest, I reckon. And its scent surely travels - First Class! Lovin it, TY Kohiba Kate xx :))
...thoughts to lift the spirit...aromatic visuals...a reminder that all has not gone up in smoke...but yet remembered of a father and son...a rare cigar...with a band to be worn...a union forever remembered.
your thoughts light up my world Jude...excellent...
John
Try writing this in the first person. I think it would strike the reader as even more tangible. I like your use of repetition in "it was that time of year again" -- very effective and it ties the stanzas together. Maybe if the capital letters at the start of each line were dropped, for me the poem would be easier to read. Of course the exception would be at the start of a sentence or phrase, when you would use an upper case letter. Wonderful detail!! I enjoyed this poem very much.
A vivid beautifully written memoir,showing the admiration that a son acquires only with age,like the fine cigars that are treasured and enjoyed each birthday as a heartfelt tribute to the father,as their spirits share the experience! Stunning!
Powerfully penned memories, Jude, wafting in like smoke...beautiful. When it's time for my Daddy to go, one of the pleasant aromas I'll associate with him is the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat.
This entire offering feels as though it is spun through a soft and aromatic haze of memories from long ago. In humans, as well as most other mammals, our sense of smell is perhaps our strongest means of recognition. Funny how after many years, the passing whiff of a perfume, food or even the scent of smoke can rekindle, seemingly tangible, memories we thought to be long-lost. There is warmth to this piece that draws the reader back into times gone by and smoky memories of gentle pleasures, safe places and childhood dreams. Your words spark the memory of my brother, who while in his teens, would smoke a pipe of Middleton’s Cherry Blend…how I loved that smell. This is an excellent and image-rich write, Jude.
Take care,
Sherry
Strong picture painted here with each line the author draws us into the study and into a glimpse of a son who retains that one last physical contact with his father through the cigars. I can still after almost 25 years remember the smell of my own Dad's Sail pipe tobacco and how it lingered on the air long after he was gone. Very nice write Jude.
And for you information, despite so many disclaimers around, the girls at Cienfuego's (Cuba)cigar rolling outfit would occasionally roll them inside their sweating tights when the tobacco leafs were somewhat dry and will not adhere to each other, if you got one of those...puting it in your mouth was the same than making love to her.
It wasn't smoke getting in your eyes that brough those tears...
Fantastic poem
Georg
The arbut I've be known to enjoy a good omas we encounter relate to moments in our lifetimes we cherish akways.
I recall my father's pipe and the aroma of the Middleton Tobacco he preferred. I've never confesed this before but I've enjoyed a Cohiba now and then....especially on the North Beach at Tybee Island. Something about the dunes, Palmettoes and the sea that morphs me sometimes.
Love,
Susan
Reviewed by Tiana ~ (Reader)
Reviewed on January 12, 2008
I was deeply moved by this beautiful poem in memory of your Father, Jude ... Very touching ... You will always have your beautiful memories with you .. take care sweets ... hugs
Reminds me of my father's cigar smoke before he gave them up. You have effectively recreated the mood, Jude. It is true that the senses can often evoke powerful memories... ...like scents and music, for example. Thank you. Love and peace,
I have never smelled the aroma of a Cuban cigar
But have heard that is a very
Classy cigar and very expensive!!
Great tone and imagery
Excellent write!!
Peace Love and Hugssss to you....Morning Star
My granddad used to inundate his office with cigar smoke and to this day I love the aroma of a good Cuban cigar...though I like smoking some good herb myself...;) Ed
Still Living on my Feet is the follow up to Tichaona Chinyelu’s first book, In the Whirlwind, which was rooted in a sense of hard-hitting revolutionary black love. However, in this sophomore effort, Tichaona brings the revolutionary essence from deep
This collection of poetry addresses the nature of time, reflections on the natural world, the difficulty of loss,
contemporary social issues and gratitude for life.
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... he spoke of matters fathers usually dismiss;
Evoking mystery and wonder
In even the most simple things
you evoke the reason you honor the specialness of your father. Excellent and touching poem. - David
eloquent account full in rich detail, so rich it breaths a life of it's own here. you fill the reader in such a smooth way, it have us conjouring up memories and a time and a feeling....would make for a wonderful story
enjoyed!!!!
and here you come writing something so fantastic
Leaving me with the craving For a cigarro Cubano
Haven't tasted one since I stole one from my father
at the age of 15, smoked the whole thing on the roof
of a 6 story, tenament in Spanish Harlem, where in those days one could view the whole city, all the way downtown and Brooklyn. I enjoyed it and din't get sick, that was my first and last, Cuban maybe I enjoyed more because it was stolen....lol
William
Love,
annie
A mate of mine; he smells his fathers cigar smoke from time to time.
Indeed, third narrative works perfectly, not that you'll ever need advice.
A most moving dedication.
and a vision with a lot of class...
I too enjoy a good cigar and I too
remember the aromas of my fathers smokes.
Excellent Jude!
peace,
carolyn
Your father is enjoying this honored tradition with you - I'm sure.
God bless you. Kathy
Ron
Be safe,
Karen
your thoughts light up my world Jude...excellent...
John
Thank you,
Kathy Kopp
lOVE tINKA
ET
Excellent offering, Jude!
Carole~
Peace,
Bill
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
this is such a sweet burnt offering Jude,so very nice indeed,fine write,
stan
Take care,
Sherry
Fee
It wasn't smoke getting in your eyes that brough those tears...
Fantastic poem
Georg
I recall my father's pipe and the aroma of the Middleton Tobacco he preferred. I've never confesed this before but I've enjoyed a Cohiba now and then....especially on the North Beach at Tybee Island. Something about the dunes, Palmettoes and the sea that morphs me sometimes.
Love,
Susan
Regis
:/ Ch'erie
I could smell his cigar
Great story poem Robert..
stay safe
Ron
But have heard that is a very
Classy cigar and very expensive!!
Great tone and imagery
Excellent write!!
Peace Love and Hugssss to you....Morning Star