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These were not hands that held children.
They clenched to fists and fought instead,
then folded Sundays to lift prayers up.
These were my lover's hands.
These were hands that pecked at keyboards
to type out what lips withheld.
These were hands that busted wallboards
when I put this man through hell.
These were hands that stroked the hair back
from my sleeping face at night.
These were hands I gripped, held onto,
hands I trusted with my life.
There are men who step in his shoes,
chasing ghosts in shadowlands
and while they might retrace his fingers,
they never once replaced his hands.
| I think Jacob has summed this up very well. I think it’s amazing how you portray strength, restraint, violence, tenderness, love and loss with just hands. |
I have one stumbling point—the 2nd last line—I think you mean “his finger’s path’, not literally retrace his finger’s shape, which is what the current line implies to me. So while I knew ultimately what you meant, I do find it a bit awkward. A minor point in a wonderful poem. Thanks, Chris
|| Posted on 2011-06-26 00:00:00 | by ponykeeper | [ Reply to This ] || wow. what a contrast of gentle and dangerous...|
of protection and the feeling of intimate danger..the wallboards, the clenched fists, could land in the wrong place..but then they didn't and the trust created...the feeling of being safe held in those hands...
this really has an edge to it..and has the reader on edge...a nervous calm before the tornado hits...and then the regrets of putting this person through hell..driving him away perhaps---
and then the procession of those who came after...never to match the feeling of being with him...
"chasing ghosts in shadowlands"
the angle of vulnerability expressed in this...and yet...the speaker shows independence, strength, the ability to throw it back into his face...to stand against...while sleeping in his arms...
such a back and forth.
|| Posted on 2011-06-25 00:00:00 | by jacoberin | [ Reply to This ] |