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The Grief of the Return Far away I hear the wind pressing nearer, the corners of the house begin to buckle in, ashamed. I climb inside the dusky words of a book unclaimed for all the dim years past, becoming clearer. On those dark pages no one writes what is missing and I cannot wait for this grieving to make sense, the beaten child hunches over, tangled in the fence; at length, his shadow distended by dark waters, fishing. The windows have eyes facing ever inward, staring down shadows at all these dark places, panes shudder, rattling in their frame cages at the lost things, a boy I unearth from pinewood. Unlidded, my eyes clamp shut, against murky depths laid open, his stare long saddened by rejection, the death I gave him refusing the question, whose guilt I now bear like an old hermit, unkempt. Underneath, floorboards groan, creak with the great weight I gather around my body, a storm approaches, raging along the horizon, tossing inlanded seagulls, waging unwieldy fielded currents, worms strung on hooks like bait. The boy brings bruises back into the house, deep wounds surfaced by winds and new rain. He climbs into my lap and holds me quietly for long moments like a clap of thunder rumbling up from darkened and muddy ground. The light switches refuse to stay turned down they throw light all over the house, pressing darkness down into the cellar like an uneasy calmness numbing our bodies to sleep, or else be found, knowing what we have become, the wizened hermit and the boy undone, by a life lost in stasis, the way we allow shame to create the basis for the storm to rise, lifting the shadow into respite. |
Additional Notes:
I modeled this one after James Wright's, "The Quest" to break out of a season of writer's block.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2004-07-31 13:09:11
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Don:
Readers may connect this fine poem with your others, or be released with its images into the
landscape of their own childhoods. It is dense with images and darker colors; rhyme and
cadence are exquisitely well-crafted. The sorrow is immense, the poem anguished and
yet glorious at its conclusion.
Far away I hear the wind pressing nearer,
the corners of the house begin to buckle in, ashamed.
What an immensely powerful metaphor here-- as if the very foundations of the house are weakened
by their knowledge of what has transpired; they are "ashamed" of their inability to protect the boy.
I climb inside the dusky words of a book unclaimed
for all the dim years past, becoming clearer.
On those dark pages no one writes what is missing
and I cannot wait for this grieving to make sense,
the beaten child hunches over, tangled in the fence;
at length, his shadow distended by dark waters, fishing.
In this first stanza, I became aware of the narrator's seeking within the "dusty words of
a book unclaimed" a minute opening, within which he might find a great freedom, in which
all of the "dim years past" might become clearer. But he is still detained, as if by
razored-wire of a prison compound, until he becomes 'unearthed' and lifted by the storm
to come.
The windows have eyes facing ever inward,
staring down shadows at all these dark places,
panes shudder, rattling in their frame cages
at the lost things, a boy I unearth from pinewood. (As if the boy has been 'buried alive'!)
Unlidded, my eyes clamp shut, against murky depths
laid open, his stare long saddened by rejection,
the death I gave him refusing the question,
whose guilt I now bear like an old hermit, unkempt.
Sounds within this piece add greatly to its emotional impact, For example, the 'uh' utterances,
are very like the 'uh!' one utters at a blow to the belly: "dusky/unclaimed/hunches/shudder/
unlidded/shut/unkempt/underneath/strung/unwieldy/uneasy/numbing/thunder/rumbling/muddy" for example.
Underneath, floorboards groan, creak with the great weight
I gather around my body, a storm approaches, raging
along the horizon, tossing inlanded seagulls, waging
unwieldy fielded currents, "worms strung on hooks" like bait. (recurrent theme within the series)
The boy brings bruises back into the house, deep wounds
surfaced by winds and new rain. He climbs into my lap
and holds me quietly for long moments like a clap
of thunder rumbling up from darkened and muddy ground.
The light switches refuse to stay turned down --as if a poltergeist or noisy ghost is about the house
they throw light all over the house, pressing darkness
down into the cellar like an uneasy calmness
numbing our bodies to sleep, or else be found, --the numbing of dissociation?
knowing what we have become, the wizened hermit
and the boy undone, by a life lost in stasis,
the way we allow shame to create the basis
for the storm to rise, lifting the shadow into respite.
It is as if the opening created by the storm allows for the expression of the boy's
humiliation, unfulfilled needs and sorrow, letting the light of the soul shine once more.
What was once subsumed by the other is now released - the "shadow" is lifted. I am
not familiar with James Wright's work, but will make its acquaintance because of this
poem. You write in your additional notes that this arose out of a season of 'writer's
block' - may I add that the energy simmering below the surface, allowing frustration
to build, gave rise to the excellent poem you have offered your readership. May we
all be encouraged that no matter how difficult the events in life, nor how long
it takes us to rally or to express that which matters most, with perseverance
and role-models who light the way (as I believe you do for us, and James Wright
has done for you) nothing is lost.
Magnificently done! Bravo!
All my best,
Joanne