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greatpoetry2004-06-14 03:20 pm
ghostofchance.livejournal.com) wrote in greatpoetry2004-06-14 03:20 pm
Stephen Dobyns
HIDE AND SEEK
At first it's just a form of play. Your mother
shuts her eyes or hides them with her hand.
Briefly, she is gone. Are you afraid? Then,
surprise, she's back again. A few years later,
your favorite game is hide and seek. You wait
behind a tree as your best friend counts to ten.
Then, when it's your turn, you hunt for him.
Doesn't this suggest the impossibility
of getting lost? Your mother uncovers her eyes,
your friend uncovers your hiding place-
the world's machinery won't let you disappear.
As you grow older you read of runaways returned,
stolen children found again. We long to believe
the world wants each of us in our own spot,
secure and respected, the fortunate held dear.
Yet increasingly on the street you see the lost,
men and women adrift between destinations.
Do you see that man in the park behind the tree?
He waits for someone to finish counting.
Then you notice a woman on a bench, a man
idly smoking. Don't they, too, seem to be waiting?
If the whole beginning of your life attempts
to prove you can't be lost, then what belief
directs the rest, or are you lost from the start?
That man behind the tree, see how he listens.
Does he think someone seeks him even now?
Does he regret that he hid himself so well?
He stands up. It begins to rain. As you pass
on a bus, the man glances toward you as if
at a scrap of paper being blown down the street.
Briefly, you feel alarm. Lost, lost, you ask,
when were we ever found? Then your view
is blocked by shops; the man slips from sight.
The bus turns and stops, starts and turns again.
You forget but don't quite forget as you watch
people with pursuits much like your own hurry
between two points-not quite lost, not yet found.
Consider this: our first breath brought us here
and as sparks rise up from a fire so we disappear.
At first it's just a form of play. Your mother
shuts her eyes or hides them with her hand.
Briefly, she is gone. Are you afraid? Then,
surprise, she's back again. A few years later,
your favorite game is hide and seek. You wait
behind a tree as your best friend counts to ten.
Then, when it's your turn, you hunt for him.
Doesn't this suggest the impossibility
of getting lost? Your mother uncovers her eyes,
your friend uncovers your hiding place-
the world's machinery won't let you disappear.
As you grow older you read of runaways returned,
stolen children found again. We long to believe
the world wants each of us in our own spot,
secure and respected, the fortunate held dear.
Yet increasingly on the street you see the lost,
men and women adrift between destinations.
Do you see that man in the park behind the tree?
He waits for someone to finish counting.
Then you notice a woman on a bench, a man
idly smoking. Don't they, too, seem to be waiting?
If the whole beginning of your life attempts
to prove you can't be lost, then what belief
directs the rest, or are you lost from the start?
That man behind the tree, see how he listens.
Does he think someone seeks him even now?
Does he regret that he hid himself so well?
He stands up. It begins to rain. As you pass
on a bus, the man glances toward you as if
at a scrap of paper being blown down the street.
Briefly, you feel alarm. Lost, lost, you ask,
when were we ever found? Then your view
is blocked by shops; the man slips from sight.
The bus turns and stops, starts and turns again.
You forget but don't quite forget as you watch
people with pursuits much like your own hurry
between two points-not quite lost, not yet found.
Consider this: our first breath brought us here
and as sparks rise up from a fire so we disappear.
no subject
i cried the first time i read it, but then...i'm a sap