An earlier version of this poem appeared in the anthology An Immortal Truth, Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2000 and subsequently in my first collection the following year. The original version was written in 1984 following a discussion with several peers about how awful we were sometimes when we were children and how, whenever we look in memory’s mirror for those halcyon days, maturity invariably summons certain regrets that, in turn, cause cracks to appear...
THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY
In a pretty street, tree lined,
children playing hide-and-seek
make noise enough
to wake the dead, the old man says
who lives on the ground floor
of an end house whose shiny steps
such fun we slip, towering wall
a thrill to squeal and climb, knowing
he’s sure to fuss, but by the time he’ll rush,
no sign of us
Waving a stick, he’ll bawl us out
and we’ll mouth him back, but not until
the door slams shut. Oh, but kids
growing up make no excuses, just din enough
to wake the dead, the old man says,
treading the ground floor of the end house
whose mossy steps so snug we sprawl,
graffiti wall sheer joy to lean, grubby nets
a-quiver at our kissing or could it be for all
he’s missing?
Children gone, traffic enough
to wake the dead, the old man said
who lived that shabby room
whose crabby gloom we never spared;
brave wall, a sorry spread,
curtains down (windows boarded up instead)
ghosts playing hide-and-seek
with eternity facing a bleak affinity
for wings taunted by the last tree left standing,
cracks in a mirror appearing
Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2011
0 comments:
Post a Comment