My Father Ties, I Do Not Tie, My Tie by Ray Bradbury

My Father Ties, I Do Not Tie, My Tie

by Ray Bradbury

My father ties, I do not tie, my tie.

On some night long ago, in June

I tried to try.

My first tie snarled upon my vest,

My hands all thumbs,

And presto-chango,

Something Awful This Way Comes.

My father quietly came by

And studied me and stood behind.

“Be blind,” he said.

“Stay off of mirrors.

Let your fingers

Learn to do.”

His lesson lingers. What he said was true.

Eyes shut,

With him to help me over up, around and

   under-out

Somehow a knot miraculous came about.

“There’s nothing to it,” said my Dad.

“Now, son, you do it. No, eyes shut!”

And with one last dear blind perceiving

He taught my crippled fingers

Arts of weaving. Then, turned away.

Well, to this day, how dare I boast,

I cannot do it. I call that long-gone sweet-tobacco

   smelling ghost

To help me through it.

He helps me yet;

Upon my neck, his breath, the scent of

   his last cigarette.

There is no death, for yestereve

His phantom fingers came and helped me

   tuck and weave.

If this be true (it is!) he’ll never die.

My father ties, I do not tie, my tie.

Yes, that Ray Bradbury. Notice the call to himself in the 7th line (for those who do not know, one of his famous books is Something Wicked This Way Comes.)

It has been decades since I read this poem and cannot even recall where I discovered it. I love the word play--not just the rhyming, but the ways in which tie keeps popping up in various forms.

The poem starts with a nostalgic look back to the speaker learning to tie a necktie. Or trying to, with his father attempting to teach him. But the poem ends in a very different place--the speaker is now an adult, and the father is dead.

I cannot do it. I call that long-gone sweet-tobacco

   smelling ghost

To help me through it.

The speaker still has trouble and still relies on his father's help. And his father does help, at least once. And this poem takes a ghostly turn!

There is no death, for yestereve

His phantom fingers came and helped me

   tuck and weave.

If this be true (it is!) he’ll never die.

One could make the argument that the speaker is being metaphorical here, the the speaker is recalling the indtruction his father gave him and that is what guides his hands. I can happily go either way with this poem--it works in both ways.

Besides Something Wicked This Way Comes, Ray Bradbury is known for Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, Dandelion Wine, The Illustrated Man and many other novels, short stories, screenplays, and anthologies that he edited. The Martian Chronicles is my favorite, although I think Fahrenheit 451 is a book every American should read. Many of his short stories and novels have een made into TV episodes and films. His output was remarkable.

From his Wikipedia page, a fascinating tidbit: "After a rejection notice from the pulp Weird Tales, Bradbury submitted "Homecoming" to Mademoiselle, where it was spotted by a young editorial assistant named Truman Capote. Capote picked the Bradbury manuscript from a slush pile, which led to its publication. "Homecoming" won a place in the O. Henry Award Stories of 1947." (Click here for that page.)

This link will take you to his website.