by Bill Yarrow
My father paints walls
My father paints walls
because the daylight is malignant
and his eyesight is benign
because dead trees mock him
because death's weather
courts him, because time's wife
spits through cracks
He has lost all worldly goods
all physical money. Where are
the friends to comfort his idleness
or cure his fear?
The accumulations of humanness
choke his breathing, yield no rest
All time is his
He paints his walls
The King has commanded
his demise, vowed to
make my father wear
an axe, to scissor
his eyes, set fire
to his skin, all to scratch
envy's initials on his heart
with a pebble and a rag
Because his nails are too short
his strength too weak
his breaths too hurried
his bones too frail
his heart unsure to take his hands
and paint their fates
he paints his walls
My father paints walls
On the walls are monsters
cities, men, gods. Murderers
pilgrims, a witch, a spy
Two rifles, a woman, a dog
in the sand. These I see
These he lives. Poor Father
Housed in a private darkness
Alone on another earth
I am not against the darkness
I can learn to live with restraint
but nothing moves here in the ink
and nothing speaks. Nothing speaks
in terror of its voice, nothing but
the oily voice of my father
animate in the darkness
where all things hold their breath
Last week I returned home
and entered the house of a deaf man
disenfranchised of patrons
beyond the vile hearing of the world
I entered the house of Goya the painter
self-abandoned, deaf to light
I entered the house and saw Goya
sitting in misery, swallowed by darkness
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This poem appeared in the January 2011 issue of blue five notebook.
Thank you, Sam Rasnake and Michelle Elvy.
I'm indebted to you, Sam, for invaluable editorial suggestions.
Interview with Susan Tepper about this poem:
http://blog.fictionaut.com/2011/07/25/monday-chat-with-bill-yarrow/
Thanks, Susan!
Nominated for a 2011 Best of the Web and Pushcart Prize by Blue Fifth Review.
The poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).
I love this, Bill, especially the sixth stanza, but I love it all. *
It's a tough job being conscience of the world but like they say...
Goya would like this poem, would recognize it.
Bill, I can't say how much I like this poem. Won't try.
Strange, thing. Was writing about Goya just the other day. It didn't reach these heights, these depths.
Fav [exponentially increased]
Yes! *
An amazing poem, Bill - and a great piece for the classroom. One of your best.
Liked this Bill especially the second stanza.
Great poem.
*
So much beauty--and music.*
"I am not against the darkness...[yet] saw Goya sitting in misery, swallowed by darkness." Wow! Heart-wrenching. Great stuff, Bill. *
I see a man who has given up on the future, repaints his past, as if a new color will make it start over again. Really liked this, Bill, very very much.
This is just marvelous - it feels divinely inspired. Big *!
Bill this is one of your best. Truly stunning work
*
So much happening in this one. A definitely favorite.
Strong poem.
WOW!! ******
This one blew me away! "I can learn to live with restraint
but nothing moves here in the ink
and nothing speaks." There's so much restriction, the son struggling to find himself, what his father knows, "the oily voice of his father" is the only voice and their is no more room there for the son's. Totally captivating! I can see and feel this. Like a Goya painting!!! WOW!!! Thank you, Bill, for sharing this one!!!
Bill, I find all of your work brilliant, heartfelt and wonderfully sewn. This one in particular owns a color so rich and vibrant that I wish I could give you an extra star, or two. I do challenge the word "humanness". Not for what it means, but for the way it looks painted on the field. Doesn't look right. Nonetheless, a * it is and well desreved, brother.
Bill, I find all of your work brilliant, heartfelt and wonderfully sewn. This one in particular owns a color so rich and vibrant that I wish I could give you an extra star, or two. I do challenge the word "humanness". Not for what it means, but for the way it looks painted on the field. Doesn't look right. Nonetheless, a * it is and well desreved, brother.
Just takes my breath away. It's perfect.
a gorgeous giant of a poem like its subject. marvelous, bill.
hey, i wasn't done! i especially like the element of repetition, which is sparsely used "my father paints walls" just in the right places to keep the rhythm going. this is one mighty drum you created here.
Read this a second time and liked it even better than the first. Again, it's got so many layer it almost demands a slow careful reading followed by another. Love this one. Bill's one of my faves anyway, but this work sparkles.
I loved this poem when I saw it at BFR. This is absolutely fantastic! And I want to read it and read it again and again as I have this week! Thanks for posting! ****
Sitting in misery, swallowed by darkness: even Goya, one of the greats. It's tough on the son, as you poetically dramatize so masterfully well.
Fantastic poem Bill. I've studied Goya intensly and this smells, tastes, and feels of him.
Fave.
This is an amazing space you've created, Bill. It's all pulled together, nice and tight. I like #4 best.
Evocative images, for example, "time's wife
spits through cracks."
Such a rich story, so many stories. I read this out loud and love the way it sounds "Two rifles, a woman a dog" and the opening lines repeated. Wonderful*
Wow! fave!
this poem is so fantastic, it had made my malady disappear.
Thanks for it.
stunning! *
and you were 26 at first writing?
Gorgeous Bill. I remember reading at bfn, loving the prose and not quite understanding. Knowing this mirrors your relationship with your father deepens each reading. Peace *
Moving and expert, Bill.*
Incredible. Keep coming back to several lines, no doubt they'll haunt me for the rest of the day.
I had to read this one because my mother paints walls.
I am late to the party, but here's a *
Brilliant! Bravo!
OOOOO! that last graph. and time's wife spitting through cracks!