Where is the Child?
Where is the child
Who has moved through thirty winters
Since he watched his father
Try to bowl a cricket ball?
And who, by careful coaching elsewhere
Understood, that the action of his arm was wrong,
Scribing through the child’s unblemished run
Of seven faultless summers, a clumsy arc,
Which sent the ball too wide,
And called from restless slumber
A spectre of uncertain shape and size.
Where is the child
Who saw his father’s failure
Force derision from each watcher’s eye
And shared their scorn, yet was ashamed?
Where is the child
Who learned too fast
The legacy of adoration,
And impotently sent imaginings
From fevered nights to boil
Each mocking eye in blood?
Where is the child
Who felt confusion; anger,
Then, the dormant seed of virulent contempt
Germinate, strike root, grow, bud and bloom,
Finding instantly, a fallow vein
In which to flower for his father’s sake?
Where is the child?
Where is the child now?
His desolation lives between these lines.
His uncomprehending eyes plead from every word,
At each full stop he mutely tries to speak.
Just once, his hand stretched from this page
To touch my own.
©James Rainsford 2011
Who has moved through thirty winters
Since he watched his father
Try to bowl a cricket ball?
And who, by careful coaching elsewhere
Understood, that the action of his arm was wrong,
Scribing through the child’s unblemished run
Of seven faultless summers, a clumsy arc,
Which sent the ball too wide,
And called from restless slumber
A spectre of uncertain shape and size.
Where is the child
Who saw his father’s failure
Force derision from each watcher’s eye
And shared their scorn, yet was ashamed?
Where is the child
Who learned too fast
The legacy of adoration,
And impotently sent imaginings
From fevered nights to boil
Each mocking eye in blood?
Where is the child
Who felt confusion; anger,
Then, the dormant seed of virulent contempt
Germinate, strike root, grow, bud and bloom,
Finding instantly, a fallow vein
In which to flower for his father’s sake?
Where is the child?
Where is the child now?
His desolation lives between these lines.
His uncomprehending eyes plead from every word,
At each full stop he mutely tries to speak.
Just once, his hand stretched from this page
To touch my own.
©James Rainsford 2011
Note to readers: Posted as my contribution to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. This is an attempt to describe that moment in childhood when we first realise that our parents sometimes have feet of clay. Your views are welcome and I'll try to respond to all who visit. Please click on the comments tab below and thanks for visiting. James.
Wow this piece was amazingly done.
ReplyDelete"Then, the dormant seed of virulent contempt
Germinate, strike root, grow, bud and bloom,
Finding instantly, a fallow vein
In which to flower for his father’s sake?"
Loved that whole stanza. A really gritty feel to it, you described the moment down to a tee.
this has a hauntin feel to it james...some definite grit in the lines...and the end, from this page to touch yourself...nice...
ReplyDeleteremember this one james...the touching close in particular....we all have been there on some level....
DeleteOh the sins we commit when trying to love our children. Oh the critic that comes out at the worst times, oh the need for comfort and reinforcement and that need continues well past when it should be needed, even after our parents are gone. It is the song of humankind. I think it may have started when Adam and Eve left the Garden.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Gay
Btw, James - I finally got the poem I wrote for your tube station picture up for Poetics. If you haven't read it yet, it's here:
http://hollyheir.wordpress.com/2011/04/30/londontown/
This one hit me in a very personal place, James, especially the second half and ending. That child can go so far, but only so far.He's always there between writer and paper. I love the originality and insight you brought to this.
ReplyDeleteYes, that terrible moment when we realise our parent are falible... lovely way to write about it.
ReplyDeleteI really felt this in my core also - you manage to write a truly emotional piece without over cooking which i kind of avoid thru obscurity for fear of failure.
ReplyDeleteA young cricketer i once was, a son too
thru to the bone all the while remaining very readable.
A penertrating poem
Thanks James
Where indeed? Gone to the man within, the man what was always emerging.
ReplyDeleteAn outstanding poem!
Excellent use of repetition, echo-like, reinforcing, building the end message. Pure skill. Excellent write and read.
ReplyDeletei enjoyed the experience. thank you.
ReplyDeleteThis feels haunting and sad to me.
ReplyDeleteHi James, I have enjoyed many of your poems and your photographs, but for me, this is a notch higher, because it involves someone most dear to you, your child. I feel like I could have written this for one of my daughter's, such is the extent of the similarity in our relationship. A masterpiece James, extremely well written with the ring of timelessness throughout...
ReplyDeleteInsightful words. Nicely done.
ReplyDeleteOh dear...this one hits me especially hard, James. As I like to refer to myself as the victim of a family real estate brokerage, you can imagine...I work in an office with my father, mother, sister, aunt...These ivory towers we all try to live in crumble pretty quick in such a "lovely" line of work. For every con there is a pro...but rude awakenings is an understatement for some of the enlightening moments I've been blessed with. Thought this to be another wonderful expression of wordweaving, Master...one that hit this James-Fan especially hard.
ReplyDeletePoignant, real! That our parents lose their lustre in our eyes, even as we love them more.
ReplyDeleteLoved the poem.
Padmavani
Powerful emotion drives this poem, James-- you write with clarity and tenderness here. xxxj
ReplyDeletevery real to me too, hurtful still, somehow.
ReplyDeleteSame as I watch myself with my own...
Love th opening line - immediately threw me in.
Love the ending -
"His desolation lives between these lines.
His uncomprehending eyes plead from every word,
At each full stop he mutely tries to speak.
Just once, his hand stretched from this page
To touch my own"
~brilliant.
Thank You,
deb.
Others have shared lines that particularly struck me but it is the emotional honesty that I most respect. I agree with Joy, you've approached this with originality. That intermingled with unadorned truth makes this potent indeed.
ReplyDeleteA beautiful poem that we all can identify with in some way...at the end we realise we are all just human. Lovely!
ReplyDeleteHi James, this hits in the gut and one just inhales the hurt along with every breath that has remained from life...
ReplyDeleteThanks to all who've visited here and taken the trouble to comment. It's heartening to realise that we can share and find solace,significance and inspiration in each other's work. James.
ReplyDeletethis one truly stands out.
ReplyDeletelove the word tour.
Those two ending lines hit me James ~ Poignant write ~
ReplyDeleteWow, this is amazing and incredibly intense. I can feel the anger in your memories and in a different way can understand the resentment you explain here
ReplyDeleteJames- you'e hit upon a theme that unfortunately is experienced by many, if not all of us. As children, our parents are our protectors, our heros, and its not until we reach the age that we have the self -awareness to understand that everyone has imperfections, that we truly realise...this poem is so very honest, human and observant...well done James
ReplyDeleteThis is such a poignant writing of pain...it resonates in me. I feel it. I have lived it. Remarkable piece James.
ReplyDeleteA rather beautiful evocation of a deep hurt. I read rejection into it. I hope I was wrong.
ReplyDeleteOh the devastating hurt when first we realise that our parents are not perfect after all - and the shame that we feel when they let us down in public. Love the honesty, the strenght of feeling and the poignant conclusion to this James.
ReplyDeletevery poignant... the last two lines touched my heart - 'Just once, his hand stretched from this page To touch my own.'
ReplyDelete