To My Adult Son Who Revealed He Writes Poetry

Its a secret language.

Only some can understand it,

a chosen few can speak it.

You must be initiated:

a bloody ritual of human sacrifice

and tormenting joy  that could not last.

Therefore the agony.

Like a prophet you are given the excruciating

vision          you scream and rage against it

but it is done to you      and when it is

finished you must write your poems

or you will die.

We’re marked but its invisible.

We walk alone       always alone

and if we are lucky we  recognize each other

along the way and  share      for a moment     

 the kinship of survival.

And so I greet you now,

you of my body and of my blood,

you        my first poem

and whisper this:

we are cursed but we are blessed.

You will be alright.

I can’t say more       they don’t allow it.

Each one must find it for himself.

So though I would stab my own heart with your pain

if I could        to spare you,

I rejoice in learning that

you too have grown wings

and fly closer      each day,

toward the gods.

Copyright Psychscribe 2008

Advertisements

Tags: , , ,

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: