March 9, 2009 I am a Templeton woman. My grandfather, John Wesley Templeton, was one of seven children – six boys and one girl – who grew up in a rough-and-tumble household in Palo Alto, California with strict parents who kept a bottle of whiskey in the home “for medicinal purposes” only.
My mother was the only child of John and Lorraine Templeton. My great-uncle, Dink Templeton, a 1920 Olympics gold medalist with the U.S. rugby team, and his wife, Cathy, had two daughters: Jean and Robin (Binnie). Between them, Jean and Binnie have 8 children. Those 8 children, including Robin and Marti, Jean’s daughters, are my second cousins.
It has only been later in life that Robin and Marti and I have discovered each other as cousins and as friends, and I count myself lucky to have these two amazing women in my life. Both are artists. Robin’s medium is the written word. She is a novelist and a poet and a teacher. Marti paints extraordinary canvasses, filled with vibrant worldly images, both material and ethereal.
Last week, Robin was selected to read an original poem at the 27th annual Santa Cruz [California] Celebration of the Muse. I asked her if I could share the poem she wrote and she agreed. Her writing reminds me of the power of words to move and inspire.
With love and thanks, Robin, I share your poem here.
(for Ann and her Afghan Sisters- tashakor!)
Greetings from Kabul!
I AM FINE! my cousin Ann writes.
She is working in Afghanistan,
trying to bring some order to the country.
I write progress reports, she says.
Shuttered in a pink guest house,
built by a drug lord, with Persian rugs,
marble floors, she’s grateful for the Afghan cook
who prepares American cuisine,
for the private bathroom with a hot shower.
I can’t go outside on foot, at all.
Every Friday, I go to town
in an armored truck
with a driver and bodyguard.
Children sell gum in the streets.
Donkey carts mix with taxis.
Women in burkas beg on the corners,
mingle with prostitutes, also in burkas,
their fingernails colored-coded.
I express my fears reluctantly.
She knows what I’m thinking:
Rocket attacks, kidnap, rape, beheadings.
I’m not afraid.
Wherever you live,
circumstances quickly
become the norm.
She and I share a matriarchal bloodline
have sought the edge most of our lives.
Lately, mine blunts as hers sharpens,
a bone-handled paradigm.
She asks for photographs of my three grandsons,
to hang in office, to remind her of home.
I imagine their faces adorning her wall,
worry what passersby will think of these fair, All-American boys.
She insists we only hear the bad news.
I’m trying to raise money
for my friend Humaira Haqmal.
who drives the Taliban-controlled district
to Kabul every day to teach at the law school.
Humaira works with the Afghan Sisters Movement.
I stumble on spelling Afghan.
The “h” unsettles me.
Is this the first time I’ve written the word?
I am going to raise money for Humaira, my cousin vows.
I am going to write about these Afghan women.
Humaira, Humaira, of an arranged marriage,
who is raising six children,
has registered 600 women
for the August election.
August election? Where have I been?
My cousin is keen
on the incoming 17,000 American troops.
I remember her as a pacifist,
imagine the juxtaposition
of her carefully placed head scarf
and the carefully placed body guard.
I love the Afghan people.
I love the city of Kabul.
Soft rain taps the roof.
I email Ann at midnight
from my warm bed,
my husband snoring softly beside me.
I think of her friend Humaira,
stopped at a roadblock,
wonder what she is wearing,
how she speaks to the soldiers.
Tashakor
Thank you
--Robin Somers March 7, 2009
My mother was the only child of John and Lorraine Templeton. My great-uncle, Dink Templeton, a 1920 Olympics gold medalist with the U.S. rugby team, and his wife, Cathy, had two daughters: Jean and Robin (Binnie). Between them, Jean and Binnie have 8 children. Those 8 children, including Robin and Marti, Jean’s daughters, are my second cousins.
It has only been later in life that Robin and Marti and I have discovered each other as cousins and as friends, and I count myself lucky to have these two amazing women in my life. Both are artists. Robin’s medium is the written word. She is a novelist and a poet and a teacher. Marti paints extraordinary canvasses, filled with vibrant worldly images, both material and ethereal.
Last week, Robin was selected to read an original poem at the 27th annual Santa Cruz [California] Celebration of the Muse. I asked her if I could share the poem she wrote and she agreed. Her writing reminds me of the power of words to move and inspire.
With love and thanks, Robin, I share your poem here.
(for Ann and her Afghan Sisters- tashakor!)
Greetings from Kabul!
I AM FINE! my cousin Ann writes.
She is working in Afghanistan,
trying to bring some order to the country.
I write progress reports, she says.
Shuttered in a pink guest house,
built by a drug lord, with Persian rugs,
marble floors, she’s grateful for the Afghan cook
who prepares American cuisine,
for the private bathroom with a hot shower.
I can’t go outside on foot, at all.
Every Friday, I go to town
in an armored truck
with a driver and bodyguard.
Children sell gum in the streets.
Donkey carts mix with taxis.
Women in burkas beg on the corners,
mingle with prostitutes, also in burkas,
their fingernails colored-coded.
I express my fears reluctantly.
She knows what I’m thinking:
Rocket attacks, kidnap, rape, beheadings.
I’m not afraid.
Wherever you live,
circumstances quickly
become the norm.
She and I share a matriarchal bloodline
have sought the edge most of our lives.
Lately, mine blunts as hers sharpens,
a bone-handled paradigm.
She asks for photographs of my three grandsons,
to hang in office, to remind her of home.
I imagine their faces adorning her wall,
worry what passersby will think of these fair, All-American boys.
She insists we only hear the bad news.
I’m trying to raise money
for my friend Humaira Haqmal.
who drives the Taliban-controlled district
to Kabul every day to teach at the law school.
Humaira works with the Afghan Sisters Movement.
I stumble on spelling Afghan.
The “h” unsettles me.
Is this the first time I’ve written the word?
I am going to raise money for Humaira, my cousin vows.
I am going to write about these Afghan women.
Humaira, Humaira, of an arranged marriage,
who is raising six children,
has registered 600 women
for the August election.
August election? Where have I been?
My cousin is keen
on the incoming 17,000 American troops.
I remember her as a pacifist,
imagine the juxtaposition
of her carefully placed head scarf
and the carefully placed body guard.
I love the Afghan people.
I love the city of Kabul.
Soft rain taps the roof.
I email Ann at midnight
from my warm bed,
my husband snoring softly beside me.
I think of her friend Humaira,
stopped at a roadblock,
wonder what she is wearing,
how she speaks to the soldiers.
Tashakor
Thank you
--Robin Somers March 7, 2009
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