Encounter with My Dead Father
I am holding my father’s hand so white,
and in silence we walk up the whispering track.
Dark figures with helmets lie out of sight,
blue shapes of hands wave to me through the night—
_and I dare not look back.
No purple blood runs from father’s bones,
no wound below his heart I see;
but softly a cross rises up from the stones
for the soul that lingers and moves and moans
_in the breeze of eternity.
Oh, the nearness of death, however far,
from the unseen word to a grieving child—
since that fateful dawn when the morning star
fell into darkness, where still we are,
_in a world grown cruel and defiled.
Oh, the quiet along the blue river’s bank,
where once forgotten thoughts take wing,
and like phantoms they move in a silent rank,
point to the sky and the earth—then blank—
_and open their filigree wings
to rise through the dissolving white mist,
and leave me alone, where I stand and remain,
in the midst of shadows that turn and twist,
that grow, decline, and cease to exist,
_while a bird calls strangely in vain …
Scharlie Meeuws, a poet born in Germany, began writing at a young age. She studied in Spain and France, writing poems in Spanish and French before settling in England, where she co-owns Thorntons Bookshop, the oldest in Oxford. Scharlie’s poetry has been featured in magazines and anthologies, including the Guardian. Her work was recognized by Nobel Prize winner Vicente Aleixandre. Her most recent book is The Emotional Robot and Other Poems. Her poetry book Outbranching was published by Cerasus, London in 2021 and is available on Amazon.
Sharlie, this a wonderful personal poem and reflection of your precious relationship with your father. I can identify with that, since it was not long after my father passed away, I had a dream we were walking together on a tropical island, of all places.
Thank you Roy! I never knew my father as he died in the war, me just a baby, but all my life i was “in conversations” with him, never forgotten and young for ever….walking with your own father on a tropical island in your dream must have been wonderful. It shows your strong band with him experiencing the beauty of our world still together.
Forgive the pun, but this is a haunting piece of poetry, full of atmosphere and showing craft and care.
This is an incredibly engaging work. You masterfully depict a ghostly, ethereal scene, with visions of the dead and a misty, shadowy land pierced by a lone bird’s cry — a hauntingly ambiguous ending hinting at either awakening or the voice of a spirit-animal. Yet in this haunting scene you convey the poignant and heartfelt yearning of daughter for her lost father, reminding us all of the transience of life and what we love.
Dear Adam,
Thank you for your appreciative comment. Your words tell me, you surely understood this lyrical landscape i tried to paint, where the seen meets the unseen in the misty layers of uncertainties.
I met my young father only once, at the age of 3 months, before he had to leave for the war again. But all my life I put him “ on a throne”, built him “shrines” and talked to him in nowhereland….
Very thought-provoking poem, Scharlie. I read it three times, each time being drawn closer to the mood and the setting.
A lovely poem, Scharlie, of images and colors and sounds and motions that don’t describe, but imply, a scene beyond the natural. The holding of a hand during an aimless walk suggests incomplete, timeless interaction that is nonetheless real. The vision of a cross rising from stones makes an ethereal impression, suited to a soul “in the breeze of eternity” who still moans in natural but very limited communication with the one he visits. Beautiful scene painting with meaning pointedly inexpressible.
The poet’s words here are sheer magic, which, in some sense or another, is unfair, and keeps my toes faced forward. I want more.