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A father, cradling his firstborn, reflects on his previous murders
August 9, 2006
Where are my other daughters or sons?
I ask as if I, learning of them, of those grains
Waiting for my arms and lips and heart, didn’t turn
My heart from them, and instead rushed here and there,
Even to cold rooms in buildings named (can you believe?)
After saints, to plead for freedom from them. Please!
You can save us! But they are always there,
These ghosts; they have followed me everywhere
Ever since, taking me to mirrors, showing me to myself.
My sweet darling, here into my once red hands
I’m weeping for love of you, and them.
by mikey
Categories: Short Shorts
Mikey Delgado
qarrtsiluni 
This is amazing–an affecting piece.
Powerful – the father’s perspective.
“…those grains
Waiting for my arms and lips and heart”
This spoke to me strongly; I know something of those ghosts. Thanks for giving us your words.
Ivy, Marja-Leena, Beth – thanks for the welcome and the encouragement.
Truly a powerful, resonating poem. What it’s “about” just hovers around the edges, escaping definition, but that’s part of the draw. A strong, uneasy image, resisting instant interpretation. Somehow it makes me think of some of Francis Bacon’s paintings but with affection replacing cruelty.
Wonderful, disturbing, heartbreaking and full of love.
Wow, Natalie, the Francis Bacon comparison is an eerie one! I know what you mean. For me, the poem first brought to mind Greek tragedy – but your idea brings it so completely into our times – which says just how universal and timeless is the thread that mikey has tapped.
This is a request to reprint Mikey’s poem in the “Outstanding Blogs” section of my website. Thank you.
Wendy, thanks, yes, please do.
Natalie, Tournesol and Beth – thanks for the feedback. Mmm, Bacon, I’ll have a closer look at him when I’m next in the Tate Modern.