************

Friday, February 27, 2009

Blind Review Friday

Blind Review Friday.

The author shall remain anonymous (unless they chose to divulge themselves in the comments.)

Those commenting are also welcome to remain anonymous if they wish.

Incendiary comments will be removed.

If you would like your piece thrown to the wolves send it to salinger@ameritech.net with "Workshop the hell out of this poem" as the subject line.


This week's offering is from an established poet (the author's identity will be revealed with next week's Blind Review) - this week we are specifically looking for interpretations of the poem's main metaphor - what is the coat symbolic of?



My Father’s Coat

I'm wearing my father's coat.
He has died. I didn't like him,
But I wear the coat.

I'm wearing the coat of my father,
Who is dead. I didn't like him,
But I wear the coat just the same.

A younger man, stopping me on the street,
Has asked,
"Where did you get a coat like that?"

I answer that it was my father's
Who is now gone, passed away.
The younger man shuts up.

It's not that I'm trying now
to be proud of my father.
I didn't like him.
He was a narrow man.

There was more of everything he should have done.
More of what he should have tried to understand.

The coat fit him well.
It fits me now.
I didn't love him,
But I wear the coat.

Most of us show off to one another
Fashions of who we are.
Sometimes buttoned to the neck
Sometimes overpriced.
Sometimes surprising even ourselves
In garments we would have never dreamed of wearing.

I wear my father's coat,
And it seems to me
That this is the way the most of us
Make each other's acquaintance --
In coats we have taken
To be our own.

1 comment:

Geoffrey A. Landis said...

Say, I like this one. It avoids sentimentality.

Not sure I have much in the way of comments. Perhaps the last two stanzas (the only six-line stanzas) make the metaphor a little too explicitly, and could be shortened a little-- on the other hand, I do like the last couplet.

Good work-- this one's a keeper.

Cited...

The poet doesn't invent. He listens. ~Jean Cocteau