The Map
Inside the obdurate
bones of my skull, a map
to the city where I was
born, and each night I walk
its spidery lines.
I stop at each corner
to read the street names,
to gather the wanderers
who lived there once. I walk
outward from my house
on the dead end road, toward
the center of the city
and greet every half-forgotten
neighbor along the way.
I pass the house where half
a century ago, a young
girl heaved her newborn
into the well. I peer
into the scrappy yard
where she’d brought
her child; I feel them both
trembling in the dark.
The bones are there, too–
smaller and whiter than
anything on this earth.
I stop at a dirty
stream near a house where
an outcast family had
lived. I call them out
to play but hear only
the defiant murmur
of wind and water.
I’m tired then but there are
a few more miles to walk
before I sleep — past church
and school, past factories
where nothing has been made
for decades. I walk faster
under the bridge where men
with deadened eyes cling to
the bottles they thought would
save them. When I was young,
I feared that looking into
those eyes would curse me.
Now, caretaker of this lost
city, I know the reverse
is true: It’s in the turning
away that we perish.
by Patry Francis of Simply Wait
qarrtsiluni 
Patry, thank you for this beautiful poem, full of truth.
I love this poem for its darkness, its razor’s edge of truth, its compassion.
Oh my, this is the first blog that I opened up to read this morning, as I have my first cup, and immediately I felt drawn into the words, the images and my skin crawled! Like moose said it! Thanks Patry!
Patry: Thank you for these sumptuous lines, full of echoes. I think we all have such maps but each is different, echoing the multiplicity of ways forward, but the conclusion is the same, your last stanza. Oh, the responsibility of being a caretaker for this place….
Yes, that last stanza is a knock-out.
Such beautiful, even tone. Quiet and dreamlike. I can’t figure out if your walk is your idea or if you’re pulled like Scrooge, and I like that ambiguity.
My favorite lines (I don’t know why, but they make something well up inside me):
The bones are there, too–
smaller and whiter than
anything on this earth.
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The first time I read this, my throat caught on the last stanza and my eyes grew moist. Powerful stuff, Patry.
Really, really a great poem!
Thank you all for taking this walk with me through the old mill city where I grew up. It’s not the prettiest of landscapes, I suppose. Every comment is stored up and appreciated.
Peter: your Scrooge analogy was a revelation to me. I frequently undertake this imaginary trek just before sleep; (don’t ask me why) and if at some point, I become dislocated, and can’t remember a street name or a house, I get up and pace the house till I retrieve it. It’s as if everything I needed to learn about life was there on my first road; and if I lose even the tiniest detail, I will never figure it all out.
I keep coming back to read this, but not being able to find words for a comment.
Great poem, Patry.
Nice, Patry. :) It intrigues me how many towns this town could be, north and south.
Wonderful. So this must be where your eye for the details of everyday life were born and where you keep that marvelous garden watered and fed.
I know that bridge and have walked under it. You speak the truth about their eyes.
patry,
i love the compassion in this poem and also your awareness of the similarity of ‘structure’dness in the bones/skull of the human being and the buildings, roads, etc of the outer world.