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:
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.
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
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