A Daughter Remembers Poem by Daniel Brick
A Daughter Remembers
I know part of the Secret
resides in this room.
The whole house, all four floors,
partakes of the Secret, the way
the whole loaf nourishes
a multitude. I sit very still,
because no other imperative
nudges me into some alien action
abroad, or down the street,
or in that corner on my left,
where a high-backed chair
with green upholstery and wide arms
once stood. Its legs left a crease
in the plush carpet, but no one can
tell me what happened to it.
It was the chair I sat in
for my First Communion. And sitting
in that chair, my father read to me,
TRISTRAM SHANDY, his favorite novel,
and poems by Borges, in Spanish
and in English. I have the books
still; I lost the chair and the man,
my father, who was good to me...
I sat on a low chair and looked
up into his calm blue eyes, and
sometimes thought he was creating
those words himself, each one
born in a flash, just before his lips
shaped the sounds that made the words
live in my mind. From that moment
forward, those words were pieces of Time
Unending. Until I die and join him,
once again a family, my memory of his
voice guides me through the darkness and
the light. Oh, but where is that chair?
Where is that comfort, that fullness
that was mine, when the world was just
a man speaking and a child listening?
Somewhere in this room resides the Secret
of those times. Perhaps it has been absorbed
by the breathing of the walls, or the pulse-beat
of the carpet, or the swirling of the air.
My father, those are your traces, aren't they?
You never left me, not entirely. Your soul is
so large it occupies both worlds at once.
Part of you resides with the angels, and
another part swirls through the air I breathe.
We are a family still....
Loving, nurturing parents are part of their children long after they have died
So calm, it's good to have such an intelligent bilingual father! A father and a friend! Where is that comfort, that fullness that was mine, when the world was just a man speaking and a child listening?
A fascinating poem, Daniel. My mind hung on every word and feeling portrayed in this quiet imagery. Brought back my own father sitting in his armchair, reading and playing word games with me as I sat on the ottoman in front of him. Brought tears to my eyes as I remembered those days when I was so young and innocent. Never realizing back then that one day he'd be gone and I'd have only empty moments of remembering to find him in. Often through the years I've wondered where his chair went, feeling him with me from time to time, wishing he'd return, knowing we'll always be a family, me a child listening as he was speaking, holding onto every word he said with wonder. Very touching and heartfelt poem, Daniel, really hit home with me. Thank you for sharing. RoseAnn
'Those words were pieces of time '- - - - - -Wonderful ! ! Loving impressions we carry with fond memories. Ýou never left me, not entirely.Your soul is so largeit occupies both worlds at once Part of you resides with the angels, and another part swirls through the air I breathe We are a family still- -
[previous comment continued]: ....leaving comments. favorite parts (among many) : just before his lips shaped the sounds that made the words live in my mind. From that moment forward, those words were pieces of Time Unending..... AND: My father, those are your traces, aren't they? You never left me, not entirely. Your soul is so large it occupies both worlds at once. i don't remember my dad ever reading to me, except maybe the riot act once. nah! mom probably had the reading chores. bri :) so NOW you have at least comment on your poem BECAUSE you put it into a showcase! ;)
Here is one comment I read after I read the poem: “Liza Sudina (5/7/2016 2: 03: 00 AM) but why daughter? you are a son? ” ………….THAT IS A GOOD QUESTION. AND here is another good question: From my mind: Why do readers of fiction or ‘possible fiction’, e.g. poems on PH, often (I think; I do it sometimes!) assume the author is the speaker, and/or that the ‘story’ is about the author, and/or that the story is true? ? ? Of course maybe you ARE a woman. How do we really know? Does PH send out spies to check on our truthfulness when we become members? ? I don’t THINK so. I have a confession; I am a twelve year old girl! I shall gladly put this into my/our July 2016 “a showcase for PH poets”, to be found in my list of PH poems on this site. Maybe that will satisfy Susan Williams’ longing to have this poem published! Bri :)
All the memories in the poem painted multicoloured scenes showing the lovely feelings they accompany human being to his death.So HUMAN!
The poem starts softly and then starts to swirl within the room, filling it. I think you should take Susan's advice, and submit this for publication. Excelsior!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/29/2024 12:15:00 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Narration of the fond memories of father, cherished by a child since childhood, have been unfolded in marvelous way in this beautifully penned poem that is a pleasure to read. Thanks for sharing. Regards. Ratnakar Mandlik