I’m pretty sure
My Dad had shell shock
From WWII.
All the signs were there.
The flashbacks,
The social isolation,
The physical isolation...
Way out in the country....
So he could apply
HIS brand of dictatorship,
Upon our tender skin.
He could hide
His anger,
In our misbehavior,
With bullshit about corporal punishment.
The public humiliation....
Of having to
Pull my pants down,
And expose my
Self.
His belt went SLAP, SLAP, SLAP.
I didn’t bruise
Right away....
And my skirt
Covered
The outward aftermath.
The inner ones;
The scars......
So THAT day,
That he spouted off
At the TV .....
Some talk show
discussing .....
“The secretive behavior of teenage rape victims”.
He was raging at their stupidity;
Debating with much certainty,
That the girls would
NOT hide what happened...
It was 20 years;
It was a day.
I SLAPPED him back:
“Did it ever occur to you that she might be afraid?”
SLAP, SLAP, SLAP
Apparently he needed to have
A living spokesperson........
Not realizing
How he had tried hiding
Me....us, all those years,
From that very thing.
To protect us,
To survive
Within his framework
Of possibilities.
I don’t know
If that little girl,
Who he spoiled so,
Could have dealt
A mortal blow.
He didn’t die that day.....
I suppose some piece
Of his spirit did.
The stubborn one
That survived the war.
His interests moved, though,
To spoiling the grand children
Especially Geneva
Who was the very one
I defended
From his belt.
THAT day....
He said
He used to use it,
Instead of his hand,
In fear he’d break a bone (Ours? His?)
In his anger.
What part of ME died?
THAT day
She was a toddler.
I SLAPPED her on the face.
After begging with her......
“Please baby,
Mommy doesn’t want to have to...”
For the 20th time....
She was saying
“Fucking Asshole” repeatedly....
Like I did,
Driving furiously through traffic...
I worried....
I had killed her spirit,
Until, when she was 9 or so...
She rearranged the word CRAP
Into CARP
And started applying
The exclamation
With enthusiasm....
Unsure of
The consequences;
Trying to jolly me
Out of my stubbornness...
When she told me
I sounded “ferocious“
At 6.
And she says she is NOT a poet....
Like my dad was.....
When I was 6
In the war..........
Author notes
I am not big on lengthy poems....so I apologize for the length...I hope there is a thread of a story that pulls you along.... I wrote this as an expression of the process....resolution of an issue....ttfn Laurel
I'm not sure...what do you think?
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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Straight from the heart
Which makes it completley pure, as well excellent. i loved reading the story that was being told. lenghty poems sometimes irritate me as well, not this one.
truly a great read.
<3
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Sharp
Hi Laurel. I'm not a fan of long poems myself, especially the self-indulgent variety. But this is great. You can't do this sort of stuff unless it comes straight from the heart and out onto the page. You have filtered it nicely through a sharp intellect and brave dose of self-appraisal/understanding. Thoroughly enjoyed the read. Thanks. >W<
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Hmm..
Very wrought with emotion and inner struggle. On one hand, you're blaming your father and spiting his disciplinarian parenting style while trying to defend your own children from it in not only him, but in yourself. Someone once told me we grow up to be just like our parents. I hated it at the time, but sometimes I think it comes true. The goal of every parent is to teach their child what they did wrong, and raise their children by filling in the weaknesses of their own parents. I'm not a parent myself, but I can imagine that to be a horrible feeling. I've made mistakes before that were the exact same ones my father made, so I can relate.
I think from such parents one has to take in not only the negative, but potentially positive effects of it. I, for one, decided long ago that I wanted to be nothing like my father, and from that in itself I learned something. My dystopian storybook, bad soap opera of a life that it is, it has become full of metaphor where it seems every major figure has its own symbolism.
So to answer the question your title suggests, I don't think you killed your father. Nor your own child, for that matter. I don't consider learning at all synonymous with dying. Sometimes, you need to scream to be heard and unfortunately, it's never really that pretty.
Thanks for sharing a very personal story, it evoked a lot of emotion within me and I thank you for that.
By the way, just out of curiosity, are you really Al Gore's sister? Or is it just a screen name?
-Wall -
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Hi,
Yes and no...I have a brother named Al Gore, but he is not the famous vice presisdent...He is an infamous travaling builder/carpenter of unique houses....ttfn Laurel -
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Haha.
Well then that is a rather clever s/n. Not that I would have cared which Al Gore you were the sister of, but I thought I would ask anyway. Thanks for the poem.
-Wall
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Holy Cow, this is good!
My mom was calling me and I couldn't quit reading your poem. Had to finish it first. She is ill and that should tell you something. I could not break away from it to go to her, but the nurse is here and went so it was ok. The point I'm trying to make is it is very good, for lack of a better word. Please write more like this. Thank you for a very nice read. I can't find anything to constructively criticize about it.
Birdie
language: 5, rhythm: 5, subject: 5, tone: 5, form: 5.
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