Guest Voices: Memories Made and Yet To Be
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When I asked my friend Thad to share a piece for this next Guest Voices feature, I didn’t expect him to send me poetry. Yet, as I read through these pieces, it struck me that his comment below is true—this art form is a profound gift, and I’m grateful to get to share his gift with you today.
Miriam offered me the opportunity to contribute to her Substack as a guest. The most valuable gift I could imagine bringing to her intellectual world was my poetry. If you’ve struggled to read poetry before, I invite you to give it a try.
The first poem is a memory…
The Bale Wagon
Upon the rows of golden sea he stands,
browned and muscled, strong and tan
On his wooden ship he rides
all flesh, but a metal hook for hand
Port to starboard,
Stern to bow,
He stacks the ship high
Raising that golden mast
Up to the sky.
And after storm of dust and heat has passed
Atop that mast he will stand at last–
Captain of his ship
Pirate on the land
Lost in the rhythm
Of flesh and steel in hand.
The second is a moment I’m anticipating…
Ari
It hasn’t met the world yet.
I say quietly, as I hold this newborn child.
His name is Ari.
It’s a unique name
My sister gave it to him because she said
She wanted him to feel special.
Different.
I whisper his name to him.
Ari.
He doesn’t react to it at all.
Though they have labeled him with it
He hasn’t learned to respond.
He hasn’t met the world yet.
That name will hurt you.
It will hurt when it’s called last for games,
First to be out, or not called at all.
It will hurt when you hear it with insults,
Slanders, and jokes.
Part of me wishes he would never learn it.
But I know there will always be some way to refer
To this baby, this boy, this man.
It does not matter what you’re called, I guess.
But Ari, that name will hurt you.
Because you haven’t met the world yet.
So different from the rough, course
scarred, callous hands that I touch him with
He has this soft, hairless
Smooth, silky skin.
He hasn’t met the world yet.
You will bleed, burn, and scrape.
That skin will carry marks
Of its time on Earth.
Right now it’s unblemished.
I can hope those scars are on accident
And not on your wrists
That they come from falls
And not from fists
But I can’t, couldn’t, keep you from it
Growth and progress require pain.
I look at you, heartbroken,
And know that your purity won’t last long.
Because you haven’t met the world yet.
Ari’s eyes are a deep brown.
Rich, Illinois soil
Waiting to grow something golden and beautiful.
But he hasn’t met the world yet.
You will see things you wish
Could be erased from your memory.
I can’t stop that from happening.
But I hope that you don’t let
The weeds take root and grow
Stealing away your sunlight.
Right now, your eyes have seen little,
And you remember nothing.
Because you haven’t met the world yet.
Ari,
You beautifully, innocent babe.
I can’t control any of it.
What they say, what you hear
How you get hurt, how it heals
What you see, what you remember.
But I’ll love you through all of it.
No, you haven’t met the world yet.
But you’ve met, and will always have,
Me.
Thank you for taking the time to read my poetry. I hope you found more than you sought.
Thad