I wrote this over a cup of coffee after attending a poetry seminar at the Geraldine Dodge Poetry festival in Waterloo Village last year. The next day I read it to an audience at the “open – mike” tent. This was painful to write and more painful to read.
He spilt his seed
In my mother’s womb
As a dog would lift
His leg to a tree
And piss.
I did him no harm
Except possibly to exist.
And yet he abandoned me
To life and world
To cold and death
A part of me . . is not
There is an emptiness, a hole,
I cannot name, what
I have never known.
I cannot feel, what
I have never felt.
But if he were not dead
I would hold him, kneel at his knees,
Cry endless tears and
Let my feelings consume him
Leaving only ashes
To fill the void in me.
If I knew of his grave
I would dig him up
I would kick, beat and curse him.
But most of all
I would talk to him
And say those things
A son can only say
To his father,
In the quiet of the night
And wait
For his reply.
Bill . . October 1st, 2006
He spilt his seed
In my mother’s womb
As a dog would lift
His leg to a tree
And piss.
I did him no harm
Except possibly to exist.
And yet he abandoned me
To life and world
To cold and death
A part of me . . is not
There is an emptiness, a hole,
I cannot name, what
I have never known.
I cannot feel, what
I have never felt.
But if he were not dead
I would hold him, kneel at his knees,
Cry endless tears and
Let my feelings consume him
Leaving only ashes
To fill the void in me.
If I knew of his grave
I would dig him up
I would kick, beat and curse him.
But most of all
I would talk to him
And say those things
A son can only say
To his father,
In the quiet of the night
And wait
For his reply.
Bill . . October 1st, 2006
4 comments:
Friend, I can begin to understand. I suffer in a manner similar.
I have found fatherly love in the Father, however.
Within our hearts, our souls,
where truths are transparent,
when His love empowers us to examine with brazen purpose,
to conquer denials and the evasion of conscience..
Then we'll discover,
design,
Him.
Everything.
Wholeness.
May God bless you.
Be made whole, brother, in His abundance.
i hope i don't come off arrogant. You're double my age.
Thanks for stopping by. I too have found love in God. It's gotten me through some very rough times.
The love I get from God is without reservation and all encompassing. To the best of my ability I return that love. It's not as perfect of course but then who can even begin to understand or approach the unconditional love that God has for us.
Notice that I didn’t use the word “Father”. Father is a human term, an anthropomorphism from ancient times in male dominated societies. That term has been passed down over thousands of years until it is embedded in our cultures and minds. I still slip and say Father from time to time but I try to think of God as being beyond any human definition.
The poem speaks to something else. It is that physical, human presence that a child needs from a parent. The touch, the warmth, the kind word. All those little memories that we hold in our hearts for years after they have left us. Parents are our first role models and yes, we can and do survive without one or the other or even both but it takes its toll.
It took me sixty years to even think about writing that poem. It was an area of my heart and mind I refused to look at. I thought that if I never had it, I couldn’t miss it. But I was wrong. I missed it every time I saw another boy playing with his father. I missed it when I saw a father taking his son fishing while I sat there alone. So many events that looked so natural. So many events that go unnoticed by most people, but not by me. At least not at the subconscious level.
So, yes, God is a great comfort to me but being human, I still miss getting that great bear hug from a dad who tosses you in the air and laughs with you into the night.
.
George writes: "Double my age" - Ouch.
No George I didn't think you arrogant. I always enjoy someone stopping by to comment. And those who take the time for a well thought out comment are especially welcome. Please come again.
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