Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LISTEN SON', by ANONYMOUS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LISTEN SON', by                    
First Line: I am saying this to you as you lie asleep
Last Line: A temple where one may come / nearer to seeing and feeling god
Subject(s): Sons


I am saying this to you as you lie asleep with one little paw crumpled under
your cheek and the curls stickily wet on your plump forehead. I have stolen
into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the
library, a hot, stifling wave of remorse swept over me. I could not resist it.
Guiltily I came to your bedside.

"These are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I
scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a
dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out
angrily when I found you had thrown some of your things on the floor. At
breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food.
You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread.
And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a
little hand and called, "Good-bye, Daddy," and I frowned, and said in reply,
"Hold your shoulders back."

"Then it began all over again in the later afternoon. As I came up the hill
road I spied you down on your knees playing marbles. There were holes in your
stockings. I humiliated you before your boy friends by making you march ahead
of me back to the house. Stockings were expensive and if you had to buy them
you would be more careful. Imagine that, son, from a father. It was such
stupid, silly logic.

"Do you remember later when I was reading in the library, how you came in,
softly, timidly, with a sort of hurt, hunted look in your eyes? When I glanced
up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door.
"What is it you want?" I snapped. You said nothing, but ran across, in one
tempestuous plunge; and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, again and
again, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming
in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone,
pattering up the stairs.

"Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands, and
a terrible sickening fear came over me. Suddenly I saw myself as I really was,
in all my horrible selfishness, and I felt sick at heart. What has habit been
doing to me? The habit of complaining, of finding fault, or reprimanding, all
of these were my rewards to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love
you; it was that I expected so much of youth. I was measuring you by the
yardstick of my own years.

"And there is so much that is good, and fine, and true in your character. You
did not deserve my treatment of you, son. The little heart of you is as big as
the dawn itself over the wide hills. All this was shown by your spontaneous
impulse to rush in and kiss me good-night. Nothing else matters tonight, son.

"This is a feeble atonement. I know you would not understand these things if
I told them to you during your waking hours, yet I must say what I am saying. I
must burn sacrificial fires, alone, here in your bedroom, and make free
confession. And I have prayed God to strengthen me in my new resolve. Tomorrow
I will be a real daddy. I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer and
laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will
keep saying as if it were a ritual: 'He is still a boy -- a little boy.'

"I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son,
crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you
were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder, -- I have asked too much,
too much.

"Dear Boy, Dear little son, a penitent kneels at your infant shrine, here in
the moonlight. I kiss the little fingers and the damp forehead and the yellow
curl. Tears come, and heartache and remorse, and also a greater, deeper love,
when you ran through the library door and wanted to kiss me. Good-night, Sonny -
- from this hour on we're pals, you and dad."

* * *

I do not know of a better shrine before which a father or mother may kneel or
stand than that of a sleeping child. I do not know of a holier place, a temple
where one may come nearer to seeing and feeling God.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net