I can’t erase
the hand print on my teenage thigh,
your slap held on the skin: pink,
hand, yours,
handprint, mine—
a meeting place of father and daughter
on a summer day.
It’s the early 60’s, it’s hot and humid,
before divorce and distance,
before Woodstock and man’s walk on the moon;
this was the closeness we had,
standing on the fresh-mowed grass in the backyard
of our pink tract house, as words tumbled
like martinis.
I stand tall like you, yet full of budding curves;
body rising from music and stolen vodka,
a defiant edge in my voice, I imagine,
beyond a place you could handle, I guess.
That angry hand without a mind,
all hot temper,
all reaction and blame,
the hand of a man who knew how to dance
like Fred Astaire,
but did not know how else to say
to a daughter—
“ I love you and I’m confused”.
Author notes
In honor of dead fathers, a passion for greast music despite
a mean streak, or perhaps it's all in the mix, like his drinks.
A contest entry
- body language by Cat.
2100 points, ended May 28, 2007, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Unsure if title works, though hard for me to change it, curious about any responses.
Comments
1 - 12 of 12
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This is wonderful poetry, meaningful, weaved from strings pulled from deep within. The visuals are so clear here, just like the sounds...and of course the images of hands (which I so love in poetry).
I wish you write more, kat!
~ Nicolette
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so very well expressed ...i never got the mean streak from the poem so i was surprised to read it in your notes ... but i guess its just one moment /memory you let us into and it does sound removed ... i love that >>> Gina
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Excellent
I am stunned. Remembering similarities -- a treasured book thrown at my head, during dinner. My best friend watching. My father threw me down. -
very interesting
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just revisiting....
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you say it with such a distance that it's almost haunting, made even more powerful I think, by the slap you can't forget.. ..
it's the distance that captivated me.. the way you've said so much about father/daughters.. and so much in that about the distance there is between genders..
it's powerful.. low key, and very accessible..
I wrote about pink once.. but not as a stand in it, more of my confusion of it.. and how I learned to detest 'pink'..
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this poem is startling to me on a couple basic levels- one in the name as i have a sister piece also named pink- and secondly in the fact that my version of pink is about my abusive father also who passed away years ago- odd coincidence.
i do like the honesty and the brave- stacatto feel of this piece- I like how you laid this out with good, real imagery.i like the "closeness" found in that very real moment.
well done. very
M
ps- if interested my pink can be found in my collection "first there's childhood- then there's recovery."
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I like that the hand print on the thigh had such an interesting tale to tell... i think the form works well and "Pink" happens to be the name of one of my favorite poems, couldn't hurt
al -
I really like the honesty of this poem - the way you bring to us vivid memories of something so personal as the exchange of hands (even though some of that is negative). One would love to think of the image of any parent as having their fingers extended to coax a child to warmth and safer places - yet in this you share with us the other end of the continuum where the drink may be of importance and you question your own.
very well done and so perfect for the contest - best of luck! ... Kimmie -
This is deep kat
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This is simply fabulous. Your images resound with a sorrowful vividness. I love the multiple references to pink...the skin on the thigh is flushed with it, but the house also bears the color. I liked that it was present in the poem in more than one way. Excellent juxtaposition of the bonding between father and daughter and the mark that separated them. Best of luck in the contest. I think you deserve multiple trophies for this. >pixxie<
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I rather like Pink. It summons pretty images, then the content of the poem drives them away - a metaphor for what must have been your growing up, really.
I had a father like that too, though he never hit me; we simply disconnected when I was maybe 13 or 14, and never reconnected. He loved a stiff drink too.
I only realized lately I got all my musicality from him. Oh, ouch, this is bringing up all kinds of stuff.
I think this is what poetry is supposed to do - hit an emotional nerve. With this reader, you have been very successful. Bravo.
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