The Revelation
Inside the bedside table drawer,
A photo of an older man—
Dark hair buzzed short—
Beside a teenage kid,
Bright, hopeful and miserable.
This must be his father.
Expressionless,
The man’s mouth a hard line,
A clenched hand
On his son’s shoulder.
I thought of tearing it in half,
To separate them,
But it was only a photo.
What good would it do now?
He caught me snooping,
"That’s my father and me," he said,
Nodding to the photo,
His voice, a lone stone
Skipping across still waters,
Measuring a distance
Too far to close.
He dropped his head back,
Eyes closed,
A slow exhale—
That caught me off guard.
His neck stretched,
Vulnerable in the open air,
Unprotected,
Like he had forgotten I was here
Or trusted me not to see him.
I wondered why
I was allowed
To witness this.
Why he chose this battlefield
To finally let his armor fall,
As if he knew
I wouldn’t take advantage.
He was safe.
For now.
I watched him,
His face,
A calm mask of his schemes,
Even in sleep
But there were signs—
The blue bruising under his eyes,
Faint but present,
Many marks of fatigue
That didn’t belong to someone
Who had known peace.
Lines, not of age,
But of living,
Etched deep enough to remind him
He could never truly relax.
A wrinkle in time,
Like the furrow in his brow
Where worry had settled down,
With a cat, a houseplant and a vow.
His dark hair fell
Carelessly across his forehead,
As if his appearance
Was a memory of something
He didn't want to remember.
I stayed quiet,
Not sure if I was allowed
To keep looking,
But unable to look away.
He had become a snapshot,
A fleeting instance of peace,
And I was here,
To receive this revelation.
@azurePond
Ooooooh this is a fiendishly clever one! I liked it (I, if it has not been made obvious already, am very much a fan of your work and it's varied styles). On the initial read-through I had some first impressions, but on going over it again i started spotting more and more subtle little elegances that impressed me.
The first two stanzas really set the tone, that taught stillness that comes from introspective thought rather than an absence. The narrator is our eyes as we voyeuristically look upon this man of memory and experience. And we see with an analytical eye the effects of his life written upon his features. A vulnerability given almost unconsciously but not exploited by our observant narrator. Excellent stuff and very evocative.
Buuuut then I spot the little details; "Inside the bedside table drawer". So swift we miss it on first passing. This is no photo we can casually come across, or on display, it has been hidden away in a drawer in one of the most intimate locations. Our narrator is there uninvited, "he caught me snooping". The suppressed emotions evident in stanza three let us know this is not some one-sided emotional conversation. Our narrator is invested as deeply as the subject we get to see first hand from stanza 4 onwards.
The very movements that are described are in terms that evoke a sense of animal wariness, as if our narrator has a feline mind. Startled by an exhalation, studying with a glance the moment the jugular is exposed. That same felid perceptiveness also marries into the odd detachment that is hinted at when describing the narrators attempts to comprehend why the subject does not act more guarded with them. This seems to contrast so wildly from the same voice which thought to tear a distance between two figures from the past an act of meaningless destruction with the photo. What is the strange and complex relationship we are witnessing that seemed so easy to understand at first glance?
I could easily wax lyrical about individual lines which impressed or set my mind scrabbling to look for more, but I suspect it might be tedious for you or others to read. Besides, I am sure they wish to explore it more themselves anyway.
Thank you so much for letting us see this, and for setting my little brain on fire for a while.
@BastionKnight
Have I ever told you I love how your brain works? I really do – I love... love your analysis. Makes me feel like I am famous poet or something. (My rare narcissistic moment as azurePond)
"Fiendishly clever" and "feline mind" – ooh, I loved those descriptions. I'm so glad I managed to set your mind on fire! Not to add fuel to that fire, but most of my seemingly generic poems or those that feel about a general theme actually have something in them that makes them quite specific, or a word that shifts the whole narrative. I absolutely love that. It’s actually not for the reader to find; it’s for me – though I don’t mind if someone does. Poems are all about perspectives. Once a reader reads it, it ceases to be the poet’s and becomes whatever the reader wants it to be. So, it’s my silly way of retaining something of mine. If you re-read Neon Yearnings, you’ll realise it’s actually about a very specific city!
I’m also really glad you picked up on the relationship dynamic – but, for me, I thought the most obvious line in that poem was “Why he chose this battlefield / To finally let his armor fall.” Anyway, do not apologise for the essay – never apologise for the essay! Thanks again for catching all those layers!
@azurePond
(Sorry I wrote so much. I got carried away with my enthusiasm)
