Sunday, August 12, 2012

Perhaps At Last He Can Feel Her...

This is the place where he put pen to paper... 
But clung to the wall, the shelves are now bare 
All that remains of his words is but vapor 
All you can spot is but a dent in his chair 

He used to sit here, here he would stare 
Years come, years go, an old clock keeping score, 
He would scribble his notes, crumple them in despair 
Waiting for his savior—but locking that door 

That door sealed him off, away from all danger 
Except from the depth of the danger within 
No one could intrude here, except for the stranger 
Who would carry him off to where his end would begin— 

The poet, who’d mourned the loss of his mother 
Would then, somehow, be reduced to a child 
He would crouch at the threshold, and call, call, call her 
Knock, knock, knock at that door; no more stifled, but wild 

This is the place where he put pen to paper 
Till the door opened, creaking on a hinge... 
Locked in embrace, perhaps at last he can feel her 
No need to cry now, can't feel that twinge

Detail from my oil painting, My Father's Armchair. You can barely see down at the far depth, but hiding in the shadows is the entrance door to this place, where I grew up and where my father spent the last twenty four years of his life, alone.

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  1. 1.This is place where he (amend ..puts)
    2.The poet, who had mourned the loss of his mother
    Was then, somehow, reduced to a child,,,,

    Any loss brings great pain
    it comes then in chain
    mother's loss for child is unbearable
    makes him off the world and feet crumble,, nice poem

    1. Thank you Jadia, for your careful reading. However, this is written in past tense, so 'put' is correct.

      This poems is about the last year in the life of my father.

  2. Life continues to reveal mysteries to, atrocity, beauty, atrocity -to the point that solving them becomes physically futile yet emotionally possible by weaving and re-weaving loss into something new and radically informed. Your response to life, the full reckoning of your creative gifts, always moves me.

    1. Thank you so much, dear Britton! It is a gift, too, to have a soul so open to absorb life.