drawn to photos of his hypnotic eyes,
his German dark stares,
his incomprehensible twisted tales,
a kaleidoscope of failed endings,
none romantic.
Then I found his letter,
and this has stayed with me,
that abortive forty-five page typed
letter to his father, never delivered,
which begins in fear,
later published, for there was
only one Kafka.
Others now read
what was essentially private,
a moan from the soul
only psychiatrists can decipher,
and English majors.
I met my father when I was near thirty
and tried to call him "Daddy".
He thought someone on the television
was calling her father,
a voice overlay that made no sense
and then it finally stopped.
Charlton Bruce Camp |
Read what others have written:
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Another thoughtful piece.
ReplyDeleteHi, Beth. This reminds me of your comment on my blog about revelation of the personal. I like how you weave in the two sets of father-child interactions. Nicely done, though at the end I was left wishing that the part about the speaker's father was longer, or even a separate poem. x
ReplyDeleteWhat a powerful poem, Beth! Absolutely, stunning.
ReplyDeleteKaren
Great poem, Beth and interesting to hear what the piece meant to you. Hope you are enjoying the A-Z Challenge as much as I am. Good luck!
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