A Sock Poem by Seamus O' Brian

A Sock

Rating: 5.0


There is a sock on the ground
a brief reminder that somewhere
a foot is afoot without a sock;
a foot in intimate discourse
with a leg, ambulating perhaps
a body, or then again, perchance
hooked supine over a flexed
other leg
terminating in
another sock.

Like this one.

A sock, a foot, a leg,
a body, a child
running, perhaps wildly
one-socked through the sprinklered
yard, a hilariously independent
machination, inconceivably
half-drawn from a single cell
of my donation.
Grown to this sock-size
from the ingestation
of the fruit of the soil
and the sweat of my brow.
A sock, disconnected from the whole
is meaningless, but the whole─now that─
is the whole of my world.

Thursday, July 20, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: children,life
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Laurie Van Der Hart 27 July 2017

This is very funny! Very entertaining poem Seamus! I remember Judith Blatherwick had a fantastical poem about the one-sock phenomenon, but can't recall the name. Anyway, her account is now closed. And believe it or not, I also wrote a one-sock poem. It's called Lilliputian Invasion.

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Tom Billsborough 21 July 2017

Is this the answer to my conjectures as I appear to live in a One-sock Universe (or more specifically my bedroom) I assumed their partners had disappeared through some event horizon into a parallel universe. Or the sock you found is probably mine. So could you return it and make at least one pair of socks whole again? But please check to ensure it doesn't have a Black hole in it. If so you can keep it! A very funny and intriguing poem, Seamus and it (the poem I mean) is going into my favourites!

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Seamus O Brian 21 July 2017

I have little elves in my house. Some people call them children, but my familiarity with the nature of elves tends to inform me otherwise. I have been fortunate thus far that though, like you, I have misplaced many a sock, I have nonetheless misplaced none of my children. For very long, that is. These elves, when small, for inscrutable reasons geographically displace their socks one from the other, in defiance or naivety of the well-known existence of sock black holes that frequent the quantum spaces between laundry bin and sock drawer. The constant tempting of fate in this manner is responsible for my premature greying, I am certain. Then these elves grow large enough to discover that my socks actually provide a reasonable replacement for their own orphaned singlets, and mine also are usually conveniently found together in a reliable place. One day I will have the satisfaction of dealing solely with my own sock struggles, but I suspect the magnitude of the space vacated by the vitality of these elves will leave me with the melancholy of an inevitable but unsatisfying trade.

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