There are so many beautiful lines in your poem, Larry! I love "no bridge strong or long enough / to connect he sides together again," but what really got me right in the heart is the ending. "You are the one who taught me to be afraid." There's so much power there from a poetic perspective, but it also seems to me like there's a lot of personal power. Because knowing that someone TAUGHT you to be afraid suggests the possibility of unlearning it. And it opens so much space for self-compassion when you know you didn't choose that. It has me wanting to sit with the question of where I learned fear. Thank you for making me think and feel, Larry!
All I can say is WOW! Beautiful and powerful poem Larry. I can relate to what you have written here. For me too, there really is, "No bridge strong or long enough. To connect the sides together again." Sometimes it just goes like that. Not everything can be mended. My story went a similiar direction, except at death there was "a whisper", but it took till the end, my father's last words he spoke was of love. My story title would be, You are the one who taught me to believe the shame.
Julie, thank you for your comment. I am glad there was love at the end of your dad’s life. There was for us, too, but over our almost fifty years inhabiting the same dimension, we rarely stayed on the same side of the canyon for very long.
Whew boy, the ending socked me good -- tears with my coffee this morning. So beautiful, Larry. I love the picture of you building a hidden sanctuary, over the years, where "fury turns to joy, / disdain flows into discovery, / contempt sings into love" -- but I wish your little boy self could have had an outside that matched his insides. I appreciated the trajectory of this poem: how you started with visceral trauma, then brought us into your survival strategy & resilient spirit, then circled back to exactly what that trauma did to you, all personal work aside. I appreciate that the ending didn't let abusers off the hook, as it might have subtly seemed to if it ended on a hopeful note.
Thank you Rebekah, for your thoughtful and compassionate response. The little boy turned adult turned elder learned early on how to present in ways that helped others not see the pain. And, all along the way, there was and is a force of Love that transcends any name, knowledge or label I can give it. And so many places like this, where people care and affirm and share. I am so grateful for this cadre of wonders!
Your poetry often touches on tender spots deep inside, Larry...and this one is no exception. I felt it hook into what I carry around the conflicted child-heart and the confusion that comes from being able to hear and sense energies behind words but not grasp the complexities of what's being said. Also the pain of wanting the connection between loved ones to be one of joy rather than fear and anger, of succumbing to silence as a lesser evil than recrimination, of wishing it were all different even as you accept that it is not.
Thank you Keith. This is very well said. I always chuckle and grimace a bit when religious and/or ideological conservatives speak of family values. I wonder, which ones? The ones in our sacred texts are often complicated at best, and often examples of power abused and misused. The reality across the centuries is that so many have been harmed, emotionally, physically, socially, by their families, I wonder which values they are purporting to promote and foster? Gratefully and sadly, I find so many folks along the journey who carry the harm done in families, all in various states of doing the real work of healing. That's been a comfort and a healing place for me.
Thanks for sharing these reflections, Larry. And for being the kind of person who inquires, "out-loud" about conventional wisdom and tradition that may actually be harmful, or at the very least, ill-fitting (certainly not one-size fits all) or outdated. It's a courageous and generous act! The people I admire most are the ones who see and tell their truth, painful and inconvenient as it may seem.
This is such a powerful poem, Larry. It reminds me a bit of my childhood and the way I retreated into daydreams to regulate myself. "You are the one who taught me to be afraid" is so heartbreaking, and in many ways it's true for me as well. I'm sorry that there was no repair in your story.
It took me a while to settle in to read, write, reflect and create. This is for my father and family, mom, brother and sister, all gone now.
The Hidden Story
Young child on the stair case,
Old enough to hear,
too young to understand.
Between the shouts and bitter words
an anger and rage handed down
through generations of silence
standing in for compassion.
That’s where it began,
the other place,
construct of waking dreams,
a gentler time, a quieter space.
Here,
fury turns to joy,
disdain flows into discovery,
contempt sings into love,
a place of grace, unbounded.
The characters created
and stories shaped
continued through the years,
there when anxiety and fear
captured the room.
I kept this part hidden,
and let the silence grow into a chasm,
no bridge strong or long enough.
To connect the sides together again.
In the fleeting moments of common ground,
I could have told you thdn
how that little boy fled from
a story he never wanted to read.
All these years, hidden away,
not a whisper, even at death.
until now.
The story title reads like this:
You are the one who
taught
me
to
be
afraid.
There are so many beautiful lines in your poem, Larry! I love "no bridge strong or long enough / to connect he sides together again," but what really got me right in the heart is the ending. "You are the one who taught me to be afraid." There's so much power there from a poetic perspective, but it also seems to me like there's a lot of personal power. Because knowing that someone TAUGHT you to be afraid suggests the possibility of unlearning it. And it opens so much space for self-compassion when you know you didn't choose that. It has me wanting to sit with the question of where I learned fear. Thank you for making me think and feel, Larry!
Thank you Lisa for your kind and insightful comment. Your comments always help me to see my own writing more clearly.
All I can say is WOW! Beautiful and powerful poem Larry. I can relate to what you have written here. For me too, there really is, "No bridge strong or long enough. To connect the sides together again." Sometimes it just goes like that. Not everything can be mended. My story went a similiar direction, except at death there was "a whisper", but it took till the end, my father's last words he spoke was of love. My story title would be, You are the one who taught me to believe the shame.
Julie, thank you for your comment. I am glad there was love at the end of your dad’s life. There was for us, too, but over our almost fifty years inhabiting the same dimension, we rarely stayed on the same side of the canyon for very long.
Whew boy, the ending socked me good -- tears with my coffee this morning. So beautiful, Larry. I love the picture of you building a hidden sanctuary, over the years, where "fury turns to joy, / disdain flows into discovery, / contempt sings into love" -- but I wish your little boy self could have had an outside that matched his insides. I appreciated the trajectory of this poem: how you started with visceral trauma, then brought us into your survival strategy & resilient spirit, then circled back to exactly what that trauma did to you, all personal work aside. I appreciate that the ending didn't let abusers off the hook, as it might have subtly seemed to if it ended on a hopeful note.
Thank you Rebekah, for your thoughtful and compassionate response. The little boy turned adult turned elder learned early on how to present in ways that helped others not see the pain. And, all along the way, there was and is a force of Love that transcends any name, knowledge or label I can give it. And so many places like this, where people care and affirm and share. I am so grateful for this cadre of wonders!
Your poetry often touches on tender spots deep inside, Larry...and this one is no exception. I felt it hook into what I carry around the conflicted child-heart and the confusion that comes from being able to hear and sense energies behind words but not grasp the complexities of what's being said. Also the pain of wanting the connection between loved ones to be one of joy rather than fear and anger, of succumbing to silence as a lesser evil than recrimination, of wishing it were all different even as you accept that it is not.
Thank you Keith. This is very well said. I always chuckle and grimace a bit when religious and/or ideological conservatives speak of family values. I wonder, which ones? The ones in our sacred texts are often complicated at best, and often examples of power abused and misused. The reality across the centuries is that so many have been harmed, emotionally, physically, socially, by their families, I wonder which values they are purporting to promote and foster? Gratefully and sadly, I find so many folks along the journey who carry the harm done in families, all in various states of doing the real work of healing. That's been a comfort and a healing place for me.
Thanks for sharing these reflections, Larry. And for being the kind of person who inquires, "out-loud" about conventional wisdom and tradition that may actually be harmful, or at the very least, ill-fitting (certainly not one-size fits all) or outdated. It's a courageous and generous act! The people I admire most are the ones who see and tell their truth, painful and inconvenient as it may seem.
Thank you Keith!
This is such a powerful poem, Larry. It reminds me a bit of my childhood and the way I retreated into daydreams to regulate myself. "You are the one who taught me to be afraid" is so heartbreaking, and in many ways it's true for me as well. I'm sorry that there was no repair in your story.
Thank you A. There were , as Shawn Colvin sings, “A Few Small Repairs, “ along the way, but the cracks in the foundation always broke through.