Pax domini..vobiscum……..(Father)
You, mild mannered man…………(crave me),
your quick temper hid from all…(save me),
watch communion plate pass hand to
hand Old Woman mutters what a good man
humble Loving Father lucky woman that she is -
forgive us our sins Preacher man!
Every Sunday starts out righteous - thank God!
for Wednesday nights are voices
crashing through closed doors
sharp as cracking! whips! and talk-in-tongues!
(heralding the binge once more)
O heavenly Jesus, save me
from your mild mannered man,
for I know only contempt -
holding his false image to my face -
wear your mask.
Janet Leigh
2 comments:
A father who wears masks for most to see, a father that lets his children see the real anger he carries, the scorn he nurtures; yet in church he is pristine, in public he is blessed; but there at home with those doors secured and the world not watching, the demons rise in his eyes, and the children scurry to hide. This may not have been Janet's "actual" father, or maybe it was--although it was in some part all of our fathers, those mask-wearing fellows who most people never get to know; just us, there under their gaze and their thumb.
Glenn
Yes, it helps to write about, to share these childhood traumas. Some say to relive them is foolish, but as Frederick Nietsche said, “Whatever does not kill you, makes you stronger.” Very nihilist, very practical, and very sad too for we sensitive types. I am sorry if my tale made you upset. Now in my 60’s, I too am moved to tears much too easily. I remember the interview with Dustin Hoffman on ACTOR’S STUDIO, and he could not even talk about his father without weeping. Emotion rides my shoulders like a feather cape, always ready to tickle my nose and prime my tear ducts.
Your poem FATHER is also powerful, and angry, and held close to your chest. Too often the taciturn and the “mild mannered” do wear a mask for most to see. But the children, the wife, the pets–they see the other side of that one-eyed Jack. I have had to struggle most of my life with anger management. I move to anger as easily as I am moved to tears. Anger resides in my neck, close to my eyes. It began to live like a parasite within me probably as a defensive mechanism. I never knew my real father. I had a succession of stepfathers. We moved like gypsies, ten schools to get through Elementary grades. You develop into a Type A personality, who thrives on competition and conflict. And yet poetry also resided near the heart chakra, mighty and sweet poetry–there when I needed it when I was in the service during Viet Nam, there when my heart was broken by love, by disrespect, by apathy, and by non-communication. When I read Walt Whitman as a young boy, it was liberating. I never was a slave to rhyme again. My poetry winged its way wherever it wanted. Often I could barely write fast enough to capture it. When I read William Faulkner, his two page run-on sentences, his piognant clauses–that was liberating for my narratives, my fiction, and my manuscripts.
You strike me deeply, Ms. Leigh. How wonderful that you have this forum to attract like minds, and others, and that you take the time to respond so very whole heartedly. I do feel welcomed.
Glenn
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