Strands of confabulations
vein the trees, bending
and waving:
the sap that holds together
the muck.
And it works,
but the result is we do not
touch.
Remember when dad seemed so tall,
so strong, a giant?
And everyone else a head or two
above? Straining for
the sun, my eyes somehow
spun around
to face my inside
and now we’re the giants
—but I see us small.
Dust mite or Goliath,
my body does not discriminate, rolling
over
the smallest point
the mind conceives
is just big enough
to swallow it
whole,
the dangling rot
of an overgrown forest.
what an intriguing verse mark...i do remember when dad was so tall and now yes we are...we too can take a thought and makeit bigger than it really is...the nottouching carries a bit of emotion,a sadness thatmaybe shows upagain in the rot at the end...still puttingthe puzzlepieces together...
ReplyDeleteYes I can remember that, we can make things large or small with ease, with whatever or whom ever we please. Fun small talk, now I'll go before I leve big comment talk.
ReplyDeleteExcellent set up for the wonderful "dust mite or Goliath/my body does not discriminate, rolling/over/the smallest point/the mind concieves." Yes.
ReplyDeleteI feel a wonder and sadness in this, but the ending has a strange dark beauty...
ReplyDeleteI was small, my father tall. When he died I towered over him by 12"...Yet sometimes I feel so little, and about as smart as a quark.
ReplyDeleteMark, you do yourself...and dverse, proud.
the result is...we do not touch...this is just awesome write mark..there's so much depth in each line...and for me, there's a whole ocean beneath that we do not touch line...and i'm just lost in the depth of it..
ReplyDeleteIt's a sad moment when that shift takes place, when we realize that giants sometimes fall, too. Despite the gentle tone, there was also a heaviness to your words as I read. Really beautiful, Mark.
ReplyDeletewow. there is a moment in my memory when I first saw my father as human, it broke my heart, and this poem describes it exactly.
ReplyDeletereally, just wow.
I think of the family bond here, so permanent yet unwilling to bend or tend or receive. Nature, nurture, "dust mote, Goliath": small difference -- if any - in what counts. - Brendan
ReplyDeleteI was huge for my age as a child. I grew up thinking of myself as a giantess; and now like Alice the world grows so huge that whovillians seem like giants to me (to mix my literary references) and the universe dwarfs me to a dust mite. Fabulous write. G.
ReplyDeleteI've never been a giant- my mom was...
ReplyDeleteI love this poem and all there is within.
great write, Mark!
That second stanza is so true... It's like we never really grow out of that. My dad died 2 inches shorter and about 80 pounds lighter than me, but he was always a giant..... When I look at pictures of us together, they don't make sense to me. I pass by the house that I grew up in 50 years ago and it is so incridbloy small to me now, but it was so huge to me then. You captured a very unique, wonderful part of our feelings here, Mark. This is really perceptive...
ReplyDeleteThis made me think of my mom, bigger than life and later so fragile and small while we had to be her giants, great write.
ReplyDeletegreat viewpoints in your words and some deep discoveries
ReplyDeleteAction noise even connection yet still no touch, still separation, still the feeling of being swallowed into the dangling rot...a dark song but one you make me feel I know all the words to.
ReplyDeleteReally nice write, I think you did a tremendous job highlighting the differences of size perspective. Also really like some of your word choices, which are excellent indeed. Thanks for the read and Happy Open Link Night
ReplyDeleteThis poem reminds me of my father right now he was so big and strong for so many years and all of a sudden he is so fragile and weak and now we have to be there for him and give him back his strength. thanks for sharing
ReplyDeletehttp://gatelesspassage.com/2011/09/20/the-fait-of-our-lands/
From one who cannot make small talk to save my soul, I cry over the world of muck you describe. Poetry seems to be one survival tactic. Great poem.
ReplyDeleteI like the way you handled a huge change in perspective, from youth to adulthood. It was in no way clumsy, just so well put in the lines:
ReplyDeleteStraining for
the sun, my eyes somehow
spun around
to face my inside
and now we’re the giants
—but I see us small.
And it works,
ReplyDeletebut the result is we do not
touch.
This line gets to me particularly. Is this adulthood, then? The "sap that holds together the muck"?
I looked up confabulation and got two definitions. Both work, but lead me in different directions to the meaning of this poem... 1) conversation/discussion 2) replacement of a gap in a person's memory by a falsification that they believe to be true.
ReplyDeleteI was really curious which you meant it to be... I know, the reader makes of a poem what they will, but I really liked this and was just curious what had been in your mind...
there's a lot to take in here, even after a second read. the reflection on being a child and now that we're adults still knowing we are really children, that got me good. overgrown rot is gorgeous.
ReplyDeleteMargaret: Basically it means small talk, but I like that it has the other meaning too. The sound of the word almost suggests it: chatter winding around and around like a vine until the source is forgotten and true communication is choked off.
ReplyDeletedust mite or Goliath - what a great comparison
ReplyDeleteInteresting verse, so much beneath the forest floor here I think... I like it!
ReplyDeleteaw, how can you make it so there is touch again (I'd say it is time to prune which unfortunately will be painful...)
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written. I believe you are blessed, however, for you see your own futility within the convo which is oft overwrought with ego when one 'grows up'.
ReplyDeleteyes, life seemed larger when i was younger and smaller now i'm older. luved the feel of the whole text. very, very good. one of my favs tonight.
ReplyDeletesmall talk... from within
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written.
Yes it's sad that we do not touch, for all our confabulations. I was thinking of the miracle of a tree pulling its moisture from the ground up and all the way to its leaves. For me that's a connecting process, but it's interesting to think of it as you do here, too.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful tensions between significance and the everyday 'confabulations'... enjoyed the tree imagery.. great structure to overarch the poem...
ReplyDelete"the result is we do not
ReplyDeletetouch"
Wow. That really sears the heart.
carries such a musical tempo, really loved reading, found myself going over it several times. A very evocative piece for me, thank you for these words ~ Rose
ReplyDeleteSorry I'm so late and there's little left to add. Plangent and affecting poetry as that low, loud rumble of truth passed through me. My father still towers, he's 6'5" but he has Asperger's Syndrome and it almost assures we will never truly touch (he lives in his own universe). I believe this is the first time your poetry has made me cry.
ReplyDeletethis touched me deeply specially these line:
ReplyDeleteand now we’re the giants
—but I see us small.
Thanks for sharing this ~
Thank you everyone for visiting and sharing hour perspectives. As Natasha says, I like to 'see the world when you look through my eyes.' It's a great challenge to write something that's both particular and universal - that is what I try and do.
ReplyDeleteAnna (Ann too): Not that I'm interested in making anyone cry, but I appreciate your response since it's similar to my own particular. My father and I never truly communicated (for different reasons than yours), and to me the greatest sadness in the world is the failure of family to communicate.
A great POV about POV, Mark. The concept of the eyes spinning around and seeing within ourselves is very cool. Loved this.
ReplyDeleteThank you Mark, I agree.
ReplyDeleteEveryone seems taken with the 2nd stanza while I'm still stuck knee deep in the sap of the first. I know I wasn't even supposed to touch and look at me.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully crafted, Mark; you are careful with your skill-- it would be so easy to soar over others' heads, but you anchor is with you in the heart. xxxxj.
ReplyDelete...Anchor us with you, I meant to say. Such a distinctive voice you have.xxxj
ReplyDeleteGrowing up is not the unalloyed pleasure it seems to be when we are small.
ReplyDeleteNot touching, making small talk, without genuine communication is such a sad state of affairs.
I love this:
ReplyDeleteDust mite or Goliath,
my body does not discriminate, rolling
over
the smallest point
the mind conceives
is just big enough
to swallow it
whole...
Making mountains out of molehills and vice versa!
love the first line, it is like you roll a ball to start a show.
ReplyDeletefabulous piece of poetry.
this is incredible.
ReplyDeleteglad to read you and love your blog.
welcome sharing your poetry with us today,
first time participants can do free linking up to 3 poems, you can write for our challenge if you want to, no obligations, we are open until Thursday night, 8pm…
hope to see you in.
keep up the excellence.
http://gooseberrygoespoetic.blogspot.com/