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Michael Simms: Four poems tracing an arc of forgiveness with real world examples
My brother who is dying of cancer
My brother who is dying of cancer
Tells me the time has come
To forgive our father because
It’s not about us, it was never about us
Only about the children entrusted to us
To praise, to nurture, to protect.
He says he learned this lesson
From our father who failed
At the task so thoroughly.
—
A few weeks before my sister died
A few weeks before my sister died
She called me, and we had a long talk,
Joking and ribbing the way we used to do
Before our estrangement. My anger
And her pride, or perhaps her anger
And my pride, had done us in,
And it was so wonderful to hear
The old Beth. I didn’t know at the time
That after years of drugs and drink
And therapy, she had given up,
And her call to me was her way
Of saying goodbye. Our last words
To each other were I love you.
A final act of kindness to me
Before she blew her brains out
In a bathroom in Llano, Texas.
—
I was so sick of myself
I was so sick of myself
Tired of everything tainted with myself.
When I looked at a flower I saw
Only myself looking at a flower.
Sky, trees, birds, streams,
Children, houses, streets, cars,
Work, play… I knew it all
Because it was all myself.
In the airport, I saw crowds, everyone traveling
Home to me, talking on their phones as they walked,
And I heard them speaking of my own self-absorption.
When I listened to the news, it was news of me, of how I
Am changed by the comings and goings of laws and officials.
The only war was the war within me.
The only hunger was the gnawing for something more.
The only death that mattered was my own.
I saw my own torn body among the war-flung dead.
I was God and the Creation.
When I kissed the woman who loved me, I was kissing myself.
It was all me, all the time.
And then… and then… my shell
grown too heavy with nothing to support it,
I collapsed into myself like a dying star,
I became a black hole that nothing escaped from.
I sat and stared, sat and stared,
Not eating, only a sip of water now and then,
Barely breathing, as all the images of my life flowed through my mind,
Beside the window I felt, rather than saw,
The light come and go, come and go,
As afternoon faded to evening, night to day.
In the dying half-light of my 63rdyear, I saw
My father’s fists, my mother’s exhaustion, my grandmother
Whipping my naked little brother,
his screams from the next room.
I saw me being raped in a bathroom
by an older boy when I was eight,
Drinking, drugs, anger, desolation
Blew through me and came to rest
And I woke from my trance, knowing
I had crossed into another world.
In the hour before sunrise, I reached across the bed
And touched the arm of the woman I’ve lain beside
Ten thousand nights, and she was she and I was I
And I could love her without thinking of myself.
We took Josie for a walk in the streets of our neighborhood.
Late April and pear trees were dropping their white petals,
And Josie had to stop to sniff each small thing,
Dog turd, dropped ice cream cone, garbage can,
And Eva kept the leash loose and easy and let the dog lead us
Into the alley where the dogs, her friends,
Were barking and a small girl came over to us
To pet our puppy, and life was good, and there were no decisions to make
Or things to think about, life was all about the snow
Of flowers and the yip of a puppy and a child’s small hand stroking fur.
—
Welcome happy morning
Comfort from the summer garden and the winter roof
In the garden the weathervane shifts above
The greenhouse our son built in the backyard
In the winter the Monongahela flows beneath the ice
Until finally we ask God for nothing but death
Won’t you sing to me once more
All along the road
Weave me a wreath of white roses
The radiant days with you, the tender nights
From American Ash (Ragged Sky, 2020) Copyright 2020 Michael Simms
42 comments on “Michael Simms: Four poems tracing an arc of forgiveness with real world examples”
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This entry was posted on October 14, 2018 by Vox Populi in Health and Nutrition, Most Popular, Note from the Editor, Poetry and tagged As Imperceptively as Grief, child abuse, Evening in the Adirondacks, Michael Simms, rape of boys, Small Gods of Grief by Laure-Anne Bosselaar.Shortlink
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These are vivid, Michael. These poems plumb the depths of subjective consciousness in a way that makes me wonder where the subjective merges with that something-else that we can all recognize in our dark and light episodes and what it is like to move between them. Bravo.
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Thank you, Kevin. I appreciate your insightful praise.
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Oh, these poems! I thought of Bruce Weigl’s last line in “The Impossible”–
“Say it clearly and you make it beautiful no matter what.” ❤️
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Oh, thank you, Lisa. I love Bruce Weigl’s poems and his approach to poetry.
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Thanks a million, you rocket blasting through, reconfiguring and expanding your orbit. And inviting us all to do likewise!
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Thank you, Marta, for this vivid metaphor!
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I loved seeing these poems again and feeling them thoroughly. The candor is exquisite. Thank you for these, Michael!
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Thank you, Susan. It is an important poem for me, recording a breakthrough in my recovery.
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Michael, these are stunning. The power in naming and letting it rip and letting it go. the pride, the wall of it coming down. Bravo and thank you, for shattering some of the glass around me, here, where I sit, not knowing you, but being taught, nonetheless.
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What a lovely thing to say, Mia. Thank you. When I wrote it, I didn’t know if it worked as a poem, but I knew it described a genuine catharsis, and for that reason it was important to me.
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Wow. Thank you.
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Thanks, Barbara!
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I so loved reading those poems again from your powerful and moving book, dear Michael! Such attentive tenderness …
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Michael I have not visited Vox Populi in some time. Too long. Now I see why I was meant to wander here today, the last of 2018. You poems dive deeply into the fragility we face with such honesty and grace. Thanks for the act of writing and sharing them.
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What a lovely thing to say, Kathleen. Thank you. — Mike
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There is a beautiful, compelling tenderness in your work, Mike. How desperately needed right now. My thoughts and prayers are with you and Eva and I hope that love carries you through. I find myself in a cradle, endlessly rocking back and forth between rage and love and the one true comfort: we are not in the cradle alone, but with others along the tungsten horizon of life and death. There is too much sadness in the world, or perhaps not enough, in the right time and place. Love for you, to you. Jenne’
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Thanks, Jenne!
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Thank you for these poems, Michael. Truly. Thank you.
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Thank you, Robert!
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So much to think about, to grieve, to celebrate. It’s all here. It’s more important now than ever that we speak our truth. For who are we if not authentic to ourselves and each other.
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And, on a lighter note, I now understand why you’ve declined to publish the few poems I’ve sent you…..:)
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Thanks, Patricia!
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When I entered these poems, I entered a world of fragility and truth—such an important combination. Thank you so much for writing and sharing your work.
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Thanks, Andrea!
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I’m glad you were able to tell it all, Mike, the horror it was. ruth
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Thanks, Ruth!
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Thank you for sharing these.
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Thanks, Tricia!
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Thank you for these poems, Michael. They are spoken out of great depths and into great depths.
Charles
Charles Davidson Asheville, North Carolina charlesnd5@icloud.com (828) 357-5405 http://www.charlesndavidson.com
>
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Thank you, Charles!
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The craft and the bravery of these poems — I admire the craft, but I am astounded by the bravery.
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Thanks, John!
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Oh my! Losing a brother and a sister – whether through estrangement, or to addiction/ illness – is very hard, Michael. I admire theraw honesty of these and many other poems of yours immensely.
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Thanks, Dan. Your comments (and your friendship) are important to me.
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Oh, my. Thank you, and may I extend a hand in sympathy.
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Thank you, Brenda!
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Powerful, Michael. Thank you.
Michael Gregory http://www.michaelgregory.org http://www.postsovietdepression.com
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Thank you, Michael!
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Michael, these are such incredibly powerful poems! Bravo for your clarity, and brave honest voice. And thank you for Vox Populi from your grateful readers…
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Thank you so much, Naomi. You have been a powerful influence on me through the years… both your poetry and your kindness. Brava to you!
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Powerful poems Michael. Without raw emotion, poetry is just words to me. I felt these experiences with you. Bravo!
Thanks for sharing.
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Thanks, Joanne!
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