from the woman's view:the boy finished breakfast
wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand
and without saying a word
walked to the field
I watched him from the window
walk slower than the boy
was wont to walk
leaving footprints
in the soft wet soil
somewhat smaller
than the footprints
he sought;
the footprints
next to me,
fading with
each breeze
inside
with each step taken
I wanted to be there
hold his hand
make that walk
with each step taken
I wanted to be there
hold his hand
make that walk
together
mother and son
but the look he gave me
wiping his mouth
heading toward the door
I'd seen before
seen in his father
I knew, I knew
he would walk alone
to have a few words
between men
between father and son
mother and son
but the look he gave me
wiping his mouth
heading toward the door
I'd seen before
seen in his father
I knew, I knew
he would walk alone
to have a few words
between men
between father and son
5 comments:
looked at a few pages of your images...love them!!
Thanks Denis. Much appreciated.
work in progress:
FROM THE BOYS VIEW:
our violet standard
wet with rain
wet with blood
here, stood
my father
against the horsemen
they cut him down
a grunt
a swing
a horse galloping
on
not a word
to take a life
to take
my father
then lean
on knee
a handful of mud
I scooped
the bloody earth
my warpaint
two eyes
I was
caked with my father
caked with remembrance
those colors
those lions
of silver
swinging
in a blue sky
of snorts
neighing
braying
mud spraying
a dirty wake
this they did
to my father
said I
a boy
with a memory
memory
long as the silver
used
to take
my youth
Exceptionally clever poem, it delves so deeply into the associated emotions of both boy and mother, of relationships, parent to child, child to parent, there are many more impressions received than one could seperate in a single morning. It connects completely with the poem where the father was slain, with honour and heart for lack of better suited, more descriptive words, with must, with need. The understanding that the mother has, in widowhood, in grief, in motherhood and the need to protect, to keep and to hold, for the son, who not yet fully grown (smaller footprints) in size begins placing his smaller feet in the prints left by the father. The symbolism used, though I have done an unintentionally shoddy job of pinpointing a little of it, is nothing short of brilliant. This poem, and all the emotions that it evokes, is deeply, hugely, entirely wowing. It shoots straight to the heart, straight to the times in which it is set though understading comes from the very different equivalents that are faced in the modern day, one is able to appreciate the strength, the conditions and the extremeties, it keenly exposes in the most affecting, communicative way the limitlessness of the human spirit, of love. Beautiful, beautiful poem.
Sweetest, the raw emotion here, to state it clearly is confusion and rejection. The mother needs the son. Wants the son. Wants to be united in the loss; wants to close ranks, together. Yet the boy, not really knowing why, can't; can't bond with the mother, for what has happened is what happens to men, to boys, or so he feels on some unintelligible level. The mother, likewise, without understanding the boy's need, still feels the pain not lessened and the boy that walks out that door will return a boy, but a different boy. When he speaks to me, I will write it. I'm feeling he will talk. Perhaps soon.
Post a Comment