#009 Backstory of the Poem “The Gift of the Year With Granny” by Charles Clifford Brooks III
What was your grandmother’s full name? Her birthdate? And the day she died? Hazie Hestine Stager-Justice. She was the only daughter among five brothers, born on February 2, 1925 and died on December 9, 2013. She was brought up tough, and as much as she loved to give a hug, she could knock you out with a cast iron skillet for taking the Lord’s name in vain. God broke the mold after He blessed this earth with her feisty affection.
Can you go through the step-by-step process of writing this poem from the moment the idea was first conceived in your brain until final form?
This was a hard one. Granny was one of those most close to me. A cheerleader and like her daughter, took no shit off me. I wasn’t ready to tackle my love of her in my first book, I got closer with my second, but I did publish a piece of it, what I thought was complete through Hobo Camp Review. I knew then that I could be brave enough to expand into the addiction she helped me hobble out of, the senior year of college she nurtured me to graduation, and her chicken-and-dumplings were insane.
The poem, like any life, grows. We remember more the longer we have to reminisce. With time I took away my foggy metaphors and mentor William Walsh (BELOW) was the final kick in the pants to tell the truth or throw the damned thing away. The MFA program at Reinhardt University is unlike anything I’ve seen. Both my Granny and paternal grandfather, Big Dad, found their way out of me thus far in my two semesters there.
You bleed from old scabs over those you want to be most honest for, not about.
Where were you when you started to actually write the poem? And please describe the place in great detail.
It was at her funeral. I carry Moleskines around like all poets. There was and is so much love on mom’s side of the family, on both sides, but momma’s folks are many, laugh, and hug, hug, hug. The funeral was held by a minister who knew Granny well, made sure we didn’t cry too much, and told a joke at the end. It’s in the poem. Death is not a door slammed. Mortality does make us acutely aware of what life we have left, those remaining around us, and doesn’t make us miss those passed on any less. I took all of that and jotted notes as my mom sat beside me in church.
Interesting side note that didn’t make it into the poem: When I was a child (BELOW,) my nanny told me an old superstition that if you look between your legs while sitting at a funeral, you could see the future. For some reason that struck me while hearing about the life my Granny left us all to love. I tried to look like I was picking up a pencil “accidentally” dropped, but I am tall. I realized after three attempts at playing it cool, to find the truth I would have to just dedicate myself and bend over to peer into the Oracle’s eyes.
I didn’t see anything but feet and the back wall of the church. When I sat back up my mom was looking at me with the expression, “What in God’s name was that about?!” I whispered to her the reasoning and she giggled at my childlike curiosity and random mindset to pull up old wives tales at a funeral. Made perfect sense to me, and that beautiful mix of faith, sweet recollections, and poetic catharsis bled out over four or five years of edits, edits, and more edits.
What month and year did you start writing this poem? How many drafts of this poem did you write before going to the final? (And can you share a photograph of your rough drafts with pen markings on it?)
December 2013. Countless. I don’t have any handwritten notes or old photos of it to share, but you can go to the Hobo Camp Review and see the earliest version I thought worthy of note. Check out the Hobo Camp Review link at:http://hobocampreview.blogspot.com/2016/04/clifford-brooks.html
What do you want readers of this poem to take from this poem?
Family is not about blood. Relation is happenstance. Love is the loyalty that brings folks together, and my Granny was the love that held me together when life fell apart on me. I want people to see the wild-haired Hazie without fake appeal or melodrama. She was a fighter. She wore pretty dresses to church every Sunday. She worried about me and some “good woman” being there to be sure I ate. I want people to remember my Granny was here, lived, made a difference, and was surrounded by happiness in life as in death.
Which part of the poem was the most emotional of you to write and why?
Any mention of my alcoholism, thoughts of suicide, and her deep concern for me being left alone bring tears – even now. It’s just personal stuff. Not regretful sorts of wailing, but more the days that went by after I moved from her home, on with life, and the time I couldn’t watch Wheel of Fortune with her every evening. I remember how my mom brought me in at the end when she remembered few, saw Granny smile real big, and say, “That’s my Cliff.”
Please Support my book and the press gracious enough to print “Athena Departs: Gospel of a Man Apart”. You catch glimpses of my Granny in my memories. “Athena Departs” builds up to her story I keep safe to save my sanity: https://www.kudzuleafpress.com/shop/4cbhr4ihrfankaxxujmf4j7x8ak0cs
001 Backstory of the Poem
“12 – 2014” from the poetrycollection BEFORE THE DROUGHT by Margo Berdeshevskypublished by Glass Lyre Press on September 15,2017
