Thursday 15 December 2011

The Visit

This is something new that I have been working on. I would love to hear what you think. I warn you, its a bit long but keep with it.

The Visit



Trepidation.

An insufficient word to cover

The traces of sweat underlying

My armpits as I pack my

Bags; going through checks

Bars, locks and doors, checks

Bars, locks and locks, checks

Bars, doors and bars to get

To him in his numbered shirt

Like a famous footballer kept

From prying eyes, no photographs

Please.

With steady eyes, he gazed at

Me as with trembling hands

I put my bag down wondering

If I could or should shake

His hand as I lift my

Fingers to my hair, a feeble

Excuse of a salute to the

Shadow of what made him

Once great.

Buttocks almost missing my

Seat, my heart pounds

An unearthly rhythm

I’m thinking with rabid

Eyes, yikes! Is there a

Doctor in this house? His

Steady gaze somehow comforts

And unnerves me simultaneously

The guard indicates the

Number five, fingers stretched

Palm wide, brisk, I clutch my

Pad to furiously comfort me

As pen scratches crazily on

Paper working with his lips

As he uttered new lines of

His memories.

There is no sign of remorse

Nor is there of triumph, its

A steady pace of what has

Been, emotion cannot unchanged

It. It’s a tripping of words of

Life gone past, actions committed

In hazes of black and as it

Flows, he’s lifting while

I’m the one sinking.

Behind liquid brown eyes

I furtively search to see if

Somewhere there could be regret

But my fear stops me from

Gazing too long, so I write

Squirrelling away my

Fevered angst, rage and

Pain. The guard comes

Back for five is past and

I pick up my bag, do

Not say goodbye. It’s a

Nonchalant release

Of a practice that is just

Now a hobby.

A quick backward glance

To this murderer of time

But all I see is the back of

His shirt and regret grips

Me once again by the tails

I am dangling between this

Truth that grips.

Mother, I am sorry. A whisper

As clangs of gates echo

My shame, I grip my bag

Closely, my tears glancing

Past the lines of heated words

My whisper completes my

Fear to face father and ask

Him why?

Instead. My footsteps

Echo the words building

Walls on my heart

As block by block

Sound. With each clang

Of the lock and bar

Repeat. You are

Dead to me.

2 comments:

Melissa Dey Hasbrook said...

powerful, abi. it's really an amazing piece. part of me wonders, though, about the victim of the violent crime and your relationship to the man. i don't think all details need to be shared, but these are ones that i wanted to know.

Pepperz said...

Hey there Mel, Thank you once again for your never ending support. it gives me strength. This poem was actually written while i was listening to music and it reads in the rhythmn of the song i was listening to.

The visitor is the prisoner's son conceived through rape and the victim is now a renowned writer who's privately trying to chronicle the life of this unknown father, hoping that somewhere in the stories, the history of his conception would come up.

I have no relationship with any of them cos I am just the teller of this story as I tell every other story.

I'm really glad you liked it. I hope to visit you on your turf once I get things settled. Miss you x