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Literature Text
It is easy to write about my father.
My father is dead. My father is gone. My father cannot read what I write, he cannot hear the words I might be saying to you if I ever get to a place where I can read to you about my father, which will never be easy.
When my father died of growing too much in all the wrong places, he must have taken that growth from me in some backwards parenting because he left a dripping hole the size of him in me
and he was bigger than I will ever be.
My father was broken, my father left us all behind and sometimes we don't even notice he's gone, my father was kind, my father was angry, my father tried to do everything for everyone and ended up shortchanging us all.
My father was more like me than I like to admit.
But this poem isn't about my father. This poem is about my mother, and that's the part I don't want to get to.
Because it's hard for me to write about my mother.
I could go on for pages about my father and all the things he did, but what I want to tell you is this:
My mother's gear shift goes straight from reverse to gear five, with nothing in between. My mother doesn't do neutral. She doesn't do stop unless she has to. My mother goes and goes and when I would give up or collapse or go off to do something fun she just takes a break and goes back because my mother is STUBBORN.
My mother is brave and kept going but maybe it's because she didn't lose as much as I thought she did and maybe it's because she wants me to still think she's perfect
and maybe it's because she knows I'm more like my father than EITHER of us like to admit and maybe it's because to love someone you have to be different from them
but my mother HURTS me and I don't tell her or write about it because I love her and that's why it hurts and that's what makes it hard
because someday my mother may read this and then I'll have hurt her and I've hurt too many people already to hurt any more at least on purpose and this gaping wound that I can't fill with anything isn't the right shape to be filled by her
and it's only in the way that she shows me how much he was broken that I see how much she was broken.
And maybe he broke her sometimes and maybe she broke him and maybe they fixed each other sometimes--
but there's no happy ending to this love story, because five children later and six years after that he's there and she's here and maybe they were both disillusioned because even if the honeymoon wasn't over in bed it was over out of it
and MAN people are broken and there are no answers because even people who are always asking questions have to agree that if he's gone you can't ever ask him for his side of the story and maybe hers is skewed
and maybe she's kind of right.
But she's strong as this house we still live in and stubborn as her father's Dutch brother (my ancestors fought the sea for their country and won, what does that say about me?) who never forgave my grandfather for something he didn't even do, and she still thinks she's right
And she might be in the anger part of grief because she's confusing me and sometimes I can talk to her and sometimes I can't
and she just wants to be RIGHT
and don't we all? Of course we do, but we can't all always be right and sometimes she's just as broken as he was, and sometimes I can see that even though she's trying to cauterize a wound that's too big to be sealed and all she's doing is burning me
And I'm not saying anything here anymore, and this is a bad poem that's not really a poem and my teachers say a good poet has to discover something but all the discoveries are gone because when my father died I forgot how to use my telescope
and he's not here to remind me. And I couldn't find the answers to my mother through that anyway because the stars don't know because the stars don't care
but I don't know how to end this and maybe there is no end because she's not dead yet and how can I end a poem about my mother when my mother is still here? I don't know. All I know is that I never want her to see this because I can feel my throat going raw in a way that means I hurt so much in a way that's not my body that this flesh I'm in--
this dripping hollow black hole of me waiting to collapse on itself, just when nobody needs me anymore--
it's hurting for no good reason because even my body feels the loss of my father,
which is kind of like losing my mother too.
And it's hardest to mourn someone who's still right here with you.
Suggested Collections
My proffessor gave us each a CD of Buddy Wakefield poetry, and this is largely inspired by that. Just the raw feeling of his stuff... It's amazing. If you're okay with some cursing, I'd recommend you go check his stuff out.
I'm kind of weirded out to post this because my sister is watching me and I'm not sure I want her to read this, but that's okay. I can deal with it.
Questions for you:
1. Better title suggestions?
2. Do the long lines work or just make it confusing?
3. Do NOT say a thing about sentence structure please I don't really care. But does this thing flow?
4. It's the kind of poem that works better if it's read out loud, but does it work okay on the page?
5. Did I make sense?
6. Is there anything I should cut?
7. Do I sound totally emo here? I don't mean to.
I'm kind of weirded out to post this because my sister is watching me and I'm not sure I want her to read this, but that's okay. I can deal with it.
Questions for you:
1. Better title suggestions?
2. Do the long lines work or just make it confusing?
3. Do NOT say a thing about sentence structure please I don't really care. But does this thing flow?
4. It's the kind of poem that works better if it's read out loud, but does it work okay on the page?
5. Did I make sense?
6. Is there anything I should cut?
7. Do I sound totally emo here? I don't mean to.
© 2013 - 2024 curlscat
Comments2
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1. This one Hurts
2. They're fine. It feels more natural like this, as if you're actually saying all of it and I can hear you talking, like your feeling are just pouring out.
3. To my reasoning....yes.
4. Again...yes. I think so.
5. Heard you loud and clear. Except, not literally or anything.
6. Nope.
7. Emo is good. What's wrong with emo? All the great writers had to be emo sometimes. I mean, hello, ever heard of somebody becoming famous for writing about happy stuff? (Correct me if I'm wrong)
2. They're fine. It feels more natural like this, as if you're actually saying all of it and I can hear you talking, like your feeling are just pouring out.
3. To my reasoning....yes.
4. Again...yes. I think so.
5. Heard you loud and clear. Except, not literally or anything.
6. Nope.
7. Emo is good. What's wrong with emo? All the great writers had to be emo sometimes. I mean, hello, ever heard of somebody becoming famous for writing about happy stuff? (Correct me if I'm wrong)