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The Thief Early summer flowers bore witness to the simplicity of youth that day. A train cut through the green hills like a finger tracing a scar. Sis and I made games with no rules as the daffodils stood guard to our play. My name was called and I did go to the door I knew so well, and the promise of ice cream to cool the heat of our summer swell. Severing the bright beam of sunlight, he closes the door behind me, to reveal the familiar dark room both around and inside me. “Sit over there and I'll give you what you want.” Touching my bare knee - 'How are you today?' I stare at the glow of the Holy water font. Large fingers awkwardly battle with the little buttons on my fly. Plastic belts bind my hands to a chair I can't move, I can't move, “It's ok, good boy” The feel of leather smarting the skin of my back seems to suspend sweet oblivion for a later day. My crying goes unheard and my voice too betrays me for it like my mind, has slipped away. My hands are free as he brings my reward, I run to the door, fingers touching the screen. My shorts at my ankles impinge me, I fall to the floor, “Don't you want your ice cream?” “Come back, sit down, stay. Ssssh with the crying, a big boy like yourself. Whatever would people say?” I run like I have never learned to walk, Get up, get out, get through the door. My sister playing alone looks up in wonder, I don't stop to her tears as she sees my blood pour. In the arms of mother and the scent of her comfort I stammer and stutter and scream. “There, there, its ok, you're a good boy.” She coos with the promise of ice cream. I still run and as I do, can only imagine the day, for it will come, when as a man I will revisit the darkness of that bright summer day. (P.S. I did go back. Poem will follow when my thought are sorted as to what transpired. Thanks very much for reading this.) |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2005-06-28 11:05:09
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.94118
Timothy:
This is a challenging poem to read, for several reasons. You hide nothing,
write with authenticity and deep feeling. And if the work of a poem is to make
the reader feel, this poem excels. And I believe that it does on so many levels.
But because of the traumatic nature of its subject, I had to read, (early, when you
first posted this) and take several steps back. I was and am overwhelmed with
the experience (yours?) of the speaker. Because the profession I chose, until
recently was that of a therapist for children, primarily, I am very familiar with
the effects of sexual victimization and the subsequent fall-out. What is needed
is a greater understanding ‘in the world’ of the inner landscape created by
such violation of trust and invasion of the very soul of the child. We hear
accounts on television, for example, but some recountings are sensationalized
(almost voyeuristic) and those who recount their torment are often in so much
pain that we cannot take it in. Those things must be happening to ‘those other
people out there somewhere’ the viewer may think. But the facts of the matter
are different. I also realize from my own experiences with survivors, both
in the work setting and within my family and friends, that it is much harder
for males to speak openly of their abuse because of the expectation that
boys or men will be ‘strong’ and not show their feelings, and a greater
sense of shame that they (males) were not able to protect themselves.
But in your poem, you allow us to take the time we need, to distance
a bit or the experience the poem as immediate. The traumatic events are
given with spare details – just enough so that we are informed. Your
restraint in showing us these makes the poem all the more powerful,
in my view. Your title seems most apropos, as what happened is that
something was stolen from the speaker. His right to his personhood,
especially as a child, to be looking at life without the knowledge
was forced upon him by ‘the thief.’ Childhood’s ‘thief’ has taken
the sense of safety that every child deserves from this boy.
In your first stanza, you paint the bucolic setting of what is to take place.
The overwhelming beauty of the setting contrasts with what is to come. Your
foreshadowing, the train cutting through the green (young) hill, “like a
finger tracing a scar” is powerfully effective writing. The daffodils which
“stood guard” at play for the children seem so insignificantly powerful
against the violence that is to take place. The delicacy of childhood is
exemplified in the setting in S1. Simplicity = purity. What the thief
steals.
My name was called and I did go
to the door I knew so well,
and the promise of ice cream
to cool the heat of our summer swell.
Severing the bright beam of sunlight,
he closes the door behind me,
to reveal the familiar dark room
both around and inside me.
“Sit over there and I'll give you what you want.”
Touching my bare knee - 'How are you today?'
I stare at the glow of the Holy water font.
The way the first line in S2 is worded gives a slight allusion
to the child’s obedience, and perhaps, a sense that he participated
by not refusing to go. But we know in fact that he could do no
other. One of the greatest violations of a child in this situation
is the overpowering of his will by another. Children are by
definition powerless before adults. And in this instance, the
perpetrator is no other than someone having great powers
in his role as priest, the forgiveness of sins. But he is “The
Thief” instead, needing forgiveness beyond my ability to
feel compassion or comprehend. The way the priest
severs “the bright beam of sunlight” is metaphor for how
he cuts the light of the sun (Son?) – the most powerful
luminary. Without the sun’s light and warmth, we die.
His words imply that the child’s ‘want’ for ice cream
makes him culpable.
I apologize, Timothy, but there is no other way that I
can respond to this poem but the long way. I must give
you as many of my thoughts and feelings as I can. I
believe in reciprocation, and you have given us (me)
your story, which deserves intense respect and all
that I as a critiquer can bring to bear.
Large fingers awkwardly battle
with the little buttons on my fly.
Plastic belts bind my hands to a chair
I can't move, I can't move, “It's ok, good boy”
The feel of leather smarting the skin of my back
seems to suspend sweet oblivion for a later day.
My crying goes unheard and my voice too betrays me
for it like my mind, has slipped away.
This stanza simply breaks my heart. The littleness of the buttons in such contrast
to the large fingers. That the child is bound to the chair and cannot move. This is
the place when reading originally that I got up, walked outdoors and walked around
for a while among my flowers. And may have shed a tear or so, because I was (and
am) so deeply moved. The unfairness of the beating, the child’s complete innocence,
vulnerability and full presence in his agony undoes me, once again. That no one
hears his (your) crying makes it harder still to bear. The only consolation is that
the child is able to slip away. For years I dealt with children who had learned
this ability only too well, and needed time and help to learn to come back,
at least partially. To feel safe again, to feel whole again.
My hands are free as he brings my reward,
I run to the door, fingers touching the screen.
My shorts at my ankles impinge me,
I fall to the floor,
“Don't you want your ice cream?”
“Come back, sit down, stay.
Ssssh with the crying, a big boy like yourself.
Whatever would people say?”
Then, I am overtaken by anger – rage – once more! (This is hard to write, but your
honesty calls forth my own.) The urge to kill this man who brings a “reward” to
the child he has brutalized makes me see red. He takes every shred of dignity
from the boy with his actions and words. You are recapturing the ability to
stand up and face him with this poem. My outrage becomes pride, for your
courage to tell this story in poetic form and take your stand. I hate that
he addresses the child like a dog, with “sit down, stay” as if he were the
child’s owner or master to a slave. Worst of all, his denial of the child’s
right to his own tears! The suggestion alone that ‘big boys don’t cry’
has always infuriated me. Because of this I have always admired men
who do cry. They have not allowed enculturation to repress their
feelings. But this child, especially, is entitled to his tears. He'll
probably have to cry a lifetime of them and still, there will be more.
This poem is a way to turn a cry into creativity and thus toward
the healing of the self and others who read, whose experiences
are similar or who have close acquaintances or family members
who have been similarly victimized. We must tell our stories or
not be fully alive, I believe. You choose life by writing this and
offering it here. (Bravo!)
I run like I have never learned to walk,
Get up, get out, get through the door.
My sister playing alone looks up in wonder,
I don't stop to her tears as she sees my blood pour.
In the arms of mother and the scent of her comfort
I stammer and stutter and scream.
“There, there, its ok, you're a good boy.”
She coos with the promise of ice cream.
You have rhymed and formatted this poem flawlessly, and I need to acknowledge
that. In the midst of my emotional reaction I need to tell you that I am aware of
your poetic-crafting so meticulously attended to. The stanza above wrings me
out, like a damp cloth. How clearly you show us the boy’s complete disorientation,
his terrified responses, the acceptance of comfort from his mother, who appears
so coolly detached. “you’re a good boy” as if his goodness has brought about
the torturous experience! Again, I am inflamed. Why, why, oh why! What
made her able to accept this near annihilation of her child? Had she had to
endure similar experiences herself, so that she was ‘shut down’ into
permanent shock and unable to consider or perceive that this was an
avoidable tragedy?
I still run and as I do, can only imagine the day,
for it will come, when as a man I will revisit
the darkness of that bright summer day.
Here, hope is invoked. I can feel hope for the writer and the process of healing
which you are facing and undertaking now. I cannot tell you how strongly I feel
about your courage in telling this story. I am so proud, though we have never even
exchanged a word. But I have identified so much within your poem, and see the strength
of someone learning to run and to walk confidently towards life in all its fullness.
Bravo!! Standing ovation!
I am very much looking forward to your next poem.
All my best,
Joanne
(P.S. I did go back. Poem will follow
when my thought are sorted as to what
transpired. Thanks very much for reading this.)