Handicapped Son
He lives in the north of England, but his words reach round the world! John Lavan, known here for A Birth,
has been writing life-spun poems for a number of years. They are, as
you would expect, based on John's own day-to-day, and his son Andrew is
the actor, theme, and inspiration for a great many of these poems. Read
more of these eloquent elements in the life of a writer at John's blog,
and keep company for a little while with this poem, which John tells us
was inspired by Wordsworth's famous Tintern Abbey. This is a lovely
upside down of a realization, a startle and a shock as this writer
takes us inside limitations and stretches the horizon of capability and
gift.
Handicapped Son
By John Lavan
Electricity in a barren hotel
suddenly illuminates.
Last week, my first son shone brightly
but now I can't perceive his light. He's gone.
It's a pang to not connect
by levels unbeknown like
eyes, hands, laughter, song, touch.
Bring it on,
a spark, a gleam, magnetic pole;
isn't that what we came for:
to feel for spots of warmth in icy caves?
Isn't that the lesson from a special boy
who doesn't buy the goods of business, husband, father
and rather would play one part here?
A seer.
A seer into embers,
melting stone, turning ice to tears of light, laughter
wielding nothing more than natural magic.
My trick is to carry the joy
in memory, because that helps
a bit,
to lift the mechanical world, Newton's physics,
boring cause-effects and all mentality
into the poetic, philosophic, myth and extraordinary.
I never am with anyone all the time
or really with myself all the time,
I am a handicapped son.
But there are spots in space and time
when it's OK,
when a heart is strong and tender,
when iron runs red,
when ice melts
and flows like
electricity.
Handicapped Son
By John Lavan
Electricity in a barren hotel
suddenly illuminates.
Last week, my first son shone brightly
but now I can't perceive his light. He's gone.
It's a pang to not connect
by levels unbeknown like
eyes, hands, laughter, song, touch.
Bring it on,
a spark, a gleam, magnetic pole;
isn't that what we came for:
to feel for spots of warmth in icy caves?
Isn't that the lesson from a special boy
who doesn't buy the goods of business, husband, father
and rather would play one part here?
A seer.
A seer into embers,
melting stone, turning ice to tears of light, laughter
wielding nothing more than natural magic.
My trick is to carry the joy
in memory, because that helps
a bit,
to lift the mechanical world, Newton's physics,
boring cause-effects and all mentality
into the poetic, philosophic, myth and extraordinary.
I never am with anyone all the time
or really with myself all the time,
I am a handicapped son.
But there are spots in space and time
when it's OK,
when a heart is strong and tender,
when iron runs red,
when ice melts
and flows like
electricity.
Posted by Annmarie at 9/28/2009 10:56 PM 
Categories: today's words
Tags: son seer John Lavan light father love
Categories: today's words
Tags: son seer John Lavan light father love
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