![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eustaciavye77So this is a poem I wrote. I had to get permission to post it because it concerns someone else's personal business and it is pretty revealing. Some of you will read this immediately and know what and who it is about. I wouldn't normally post something that takes such license with another person's life, but I truly believe it is one of the best things I've written. I'm not generally very confidant about my work, but I think this is a beautiful piece:
"A letter to Mr. H, on your departure"
i do not know if the wind blew
that morning, if it was a morning
when your body released you
or what color the sky wore
four days later as your wife
laid you into the ground.
i know you only in the winding
tales from your son's mouth spoken
in a voice i imagine as yours.
and yet, as i watch him cut
and thoughtfully chew his dinner
across a small oak table
in a crowded fake british pub
you poke your head around the corner
unnoticed as ghosts are, you follow
us home. while I lay in your son's
bed, wound up in pilled cotton sheets
you used to sleep on, i hear a silence
that is your voice, revealing your presence.
since the night, clouded and cold
that I learned of your departure
shadows of a giant dance
on my back. so it has been
i touched the stregnth of two
generations in step with me, father and son.
but while i feel your fingers reaching down
to take us up into your arms
your son slowly shatters
from the lightness of your absence.
looking through his oceanic eyes
you see my weakness, you see my need.
but i am iron in my faith and your son
crumbles like rust for want of proof.
with each giggle that emanates
from his young face i feel your smile
spreading to encompass us. he hopes
but does not know. he lives to believe
that the giant is with us. your son, a man
in sunlight, a blinding force, is a child
in my arms at nightfall.
"A letter to Mr. H, on your departure"
i do not know if the wind blew
that morning, if it was a morning
when your body released you
or what color the sky wore
four days later as your wife
laid you into the ground.
i know you only in the winding
tales from your son's mouth spoken
in a voice i imagine as yours.
and yet, as i watch him cut
and thoughtfully chew his dinner
across a small oak table
in a crowded fake british pub
you poke your head around the corner
unnoticed as ghosts are, you follow
us home. while I lay in your son's
bed, wound up in pilled cotton sheets
you used to sleep on, i hear a silence
that is your voice, revealing your presence.
since the night, clouded and cold
that I learned of your departure
shadows of a giant dance
on my back. so it has been
i touched the stregnth of two
generations in step with me, father and son.
but while i feel your fingers reaching down
to take us up into your arms
your son slowly shatters
from the lightness of your absence.
looking through his oceanic eyes
you see my weakness, you see my need.
but i am iron in my faith and your son
crumbles like rust for want of proof.
with each giggle that emanates
from his young face i feel your smile
spreading to encompass us. he hopes
but does not know. he lives to believe
that the giant is with us. your son, a man
in sunlight, a blinding force, is a child
in my arms at nightfall.
