Your Fathers (1985) Poem by Max Reif

Your Fathers (1985)

Rating: 4.6

Your fathers enjoyed things,
your fathers got their hearts broken too.
They were young, they were small,
they were cared for by their parents,
they saw the snow in the city
for the first time and wondered.

They found themselves suddenly big
and wondered where chldhood
had gone like clothes outgrown,
They found the world suddenly difficult
and wondered where Magic had gone,
and the shock was so painful they decided
to forget there ever was such a thing as Magic.

In their hearts now are horses and carts
and snowy streets from fifty years ago,
Chagall expressed such memories,
but they don't know how.

Your fathers lingered in a small world just like you
Fifteen years to find it gone like water left in the sun.
They sipped and dawdled the morning
only to find all at once, harsh afternoon light.

Your fathers' fathers were a world of mist and green,
a primeval world rising out of non-being for your fathers,
a world they kissed goodbye,
as you will kiss your fathers goodbye
and your son will kiss you.

Fathers who rise on one horizon and set on another,
that is all we ever have,
and we are forever saying goodbye,
and hello.

Raynette Eitel 02 October 2005

Max, I will mark this as one of my favorites. It is a wonderful, healing way to look at the 'sins of the fathers.' I especially like the image of fathers rising in one horizon and setting on the other. That is startling and a peaceful way of looking at our fathers. Thanks for this. Raynette

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ANKWASA HARLORD 28 December 2019

Simple bt meaningful thank you for the poem write more

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Sakalabaktula Sairaj 20 October 2017

so nice i really so happy by reading this poem.. write some more poem like this.. its simple and so good i loved this poem

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Otteri Selvakumar 01 August 2006

Your father...good father...

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Nimal Dunuhinga 27 March 2006

What you said is perfectly correct Max.Fathers and their fathers and ancestors because of them we are free today, they made our world and we have to do the same?

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Linda Hepner 02 October 2005

Such melancholy in your poem. It takes a few years to realize the patterns we make with our parents. Their past becomes Eden, our past will be Eden for our children, they will not realize until they have children of their own. It reminds me of a poem I put online, Cat Nap, which shows how I hide from such moods, but I arrived there by reading Chaim Grade's 'My Mother's Sabbath Days' which I do recommend. Take care, this week and throughout. Linda

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Max Reif

Max Reif

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