A selection of poetry rooted in domestic humor, Cape Town and South Africa

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Freeing the poem

Freeing the poem

At first he's a ball of energy,

This child in my lap,

Fighting for domination,

Eager to contest.

And I am all firm discipline,

Trying to reconcile his untamed

Wilfulness with a dream of an ordered lifestyle,

Bedtime approaching; deadlines too.

Damn it there are two of them

And it’s open wrestling, winner takes all,

And angry desperation has a word,

Controlling parent too,

And don't forget stressed neurotic.

Then suddenly he latches,

Teat engaged, sucking strongly,

And the focus shifts inward,

Light goes off, shallow then deeper

Breathing, breath, bre...


And the story refines, finds its own metre,

Jumps laterally, then the struggle is over,

And the dream is free.

He is easy, now, my poem,

Sleeping rhythmically on my chest,

Malleable. Vulnerable. Cherished.

Resting close to my heart.

Ready for the long night's absent presence.

The proud father.

I incline myself

Roll away,

Tuck him carefully in,

Make a wish for his future,

And kiss him goodnight.


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