My Papa's Waltz by Theodore Roethke

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.

I instantly loved this poem from the first time I read it. I reminded me of my own dad, not that he drank a lot of whisky or that we trashed the kitchen, but of the tender memory. If a child is lucky and lives in a loving home, they will grow up with a few perfect memories. These are the types of memories that are crystal clear even years later.

This memory was probably made only a few years before Roethke’s father’s death. After reading this poem I got my ideas together and then started to research what others had thought of it. I was shocked to see how many people thought this was a poem about an abusive father. I simple can’t agree with that. I looked into Roethke’s history and found that his father was not abusive. He owned a greenhouse business and worked with his hands all day. The Great Depression had made men tough but not mean. Roethke’s father loved him. I actually found that Roethke’s relationship with his father was on better terms than the one with his mother, which would explain her frown. She was sad that didn’t have the type of relationship with her son that her husband had.

I think most people saw the words: whiskey, death, battered, beat time, and palm cake hard by dirt; and assumed this was an abusive dance but a closer look proved otherwise.  The boy clung like death. Like humans can never escape death, Roethke never wanted his father to leave or die. The choice of “slid” verses “fell”, make the second stanza a pleasant memory verses an abusive one. Many will miss this, but it defines the poem. The pans slid from the shelf. They didn’t fall or crash after being hit or thrown. They slid from the vibration of the two romping around the kitchen. Even the word “romping” brings images of playfulness. The fathers knuckle was battered and his palm caked with dirt because he worked all day in the dirt, providing for his family.

At the end of the poem, the boy is clinging to his father’s shirt never wanting this moment end. I see this night filled with laughter and love, with a child saying “no please, five more minutes” and the father giving in because this has been the best part if his week. I can’t see how people have read this and not seen the care and love in this relationship. As I said in the beginning, this is one of my favorite if not my favorite poem.

After thought!

I challenge everyone who reads this blog to read the poem one more time and think of your perfect memory. Leave a comment if you agree (or disagree) with what I’ve said or if you have a memory like this!