Middle Age
by John Riley
after Robert Lowell
There are no city-chewed streets,
only white and lilac blooming dogwood trees.
Cars with whisper engines
murmur past.
It is spring, not mid-winter,
already my light coat is a burden.
It is true, at every early-morning,
still dark, or pale-shadowed corner,
I meet my father, too.
My age, he is dead,
stares as blindly
as in life.
Why ask him to be forgiven
when he is not who I hurt?
I injure only by loving.
He is what passes while I wait
to be spirited. Tonight,
I'll lay my head down with the living.
There are no city-chewed streets,
only white and lilac blooming dogwood trees.
Cars with whisper engines
murmur past.
It is spring, not mid-winter,
already my light coat is a burden.
It is true, at every early-morning,
still dark, or pale-shadowed corner,
I meet my father, too.
My age, he is dead,
stares as blindly
as in life.
Why ask him to be forgiven
when he is not who I hurt?
I injure only by loving.
He is what passes while I wait
to be spirited. Tonight,
I'll lay my head down with the living.
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Author's Note
Published in Loch Raven Review
Other stories by John Riley
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A gritty subject clad in strong metaphors and stunning rhythm.Anguished and hopeful. To read, and read again, and sing. Favorite!
Fine and highly refined.
A few words can move me toward something new .
That's what I look for; that's what you've done with these lines.
This piece captures a feeling of pre-dawn awareness so well.
Twlight intensity in all the sights and sounds.
"He is what passes while I wait
to be spirited." struck me as particularly beautiful.
Beautiful.
Sad and brilliant. Love the line about not asking the father to be forgiven and the last line. Fav
Lovely.*
good, good!*
Nicely crafted and imagined, John. Yes.*
Wonderful opening -
"There are no city-chewed streets,
only white and lilac blooming dogwood trees."
Good poem.
I am so glad for the backdrop of "only white and lilac blooming dogwood trees." *
Beautiful and complex. Fave*
So interesting to read your poem against the Lowell. It's no so much "after" Lowell as it is talking back to him, poem responding to poem. Marvelous idea.
Middle Age
Robert Lowell
Now the midwinter grind
is on me, New York
drills through my nerves,
as I walk
the chewed-up streets.
At forty-five,
what next, what next?
At every corner,
I meet my Father,
my age, still alive.
Father, forgive me
my injuries,
as I forgive
those I
have injured!
You never climbed
Mount Sion, yet left
dinosaur
death-steps on the crust,
where I must walk.
"I injure only by loving." A universal truth*
I agree with Bill and am glad he posted the poem for comparison. It is a very interesting and well done idea.
Very fine. Moving.
Thanks everyone for your kind comments.
This made me sad. I didn't know the Lowell poem but I agree it is a worthy and fascinating response both to the other maker as to your own maker, thy father. *