My Papa’s Waltz
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
- Theodore Roethe
This is the poem I have chosen for one of our in-class essay’s in English. I’m not quite sure what aspect of the poem I want to touch on yet but it’s very controversial. Some see the emotion behind the poem as hate and others, including myself, see love.
When you read anything, you are bringing your memories and experiences into every word interpreted. Just touching the surface of the poem, I do see a father who obviously loves his son, hence the romping (rough housing) that occurs. The father who’s hands are caked hard by dirt is hardworking, comes home to enjoy a glass of whiskey to unwind, and plays, a tad rough, with his son. It is not the actual waltz that is done, just movements that has become familiar to the boy as his papa’s certain dance, or waltz.
Personally, it hits experiences with my mother like a hammer on a nail and I know that is why I see it as love, regardless of the bad, rather than abuse as I have heard some people interpret it.
