Troubadour by Mark Yakich

View this email on a browser Forward to a friend July 1, 2014   Troubadour   Mark Yakich

When I was a boy and my fist Would land into my father’s arm, I’d cry out, and he’d say Didn’t hurt me none. He’s been dead six years now, And my work is still to try To beat myself up And make the pain last.            Copyright @ 2014 by Mark Yakich. Used with permission of the author. About This Poem   “Originating in southern Europe in the 11th century, troubadours were composers and performers of lyric poetry. Although today ‘troubadour’ connotes ‘traveling minstrel,’ most of them traveled little and wrote for wealthy patrons. This poem ‘Troubadour’ was written for my father, who explored the world not by traversing it but by reading about it. At his death, he hadn’t taken a trip of more than 100 miles for 30 years, and his book collection included more than 15,000 volumes of nonfiction.” —Mark Yakich   Mark Yakich is the author of The Importance of Peeling Potatoes in Ukraine (Penguin, 2008). He teaches at Loyola University New Orleans. Most Recent Book by Yakich   The Importance of Peeling Potatoes in Ukraine (Penguin Books, 2008) “Cruel Cogito” by Ken Chen “My Father” by Scott Hightower “Working Late” by Louis Simpson Poem-a-Day   Launched during National Poetry Month in 2006, Poem-a-Day features new and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and classic poems on weekends. Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.   You are receiving this e-mail because you elected to subscribe to our mailing list. If you would like to unsubscribe, please click here.   © Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038