Thank you for reading and for saying that. Writing it felt like stepping into a space I’d avoided for a long time, I’m grateful it came across with that honesty.
This feels raw and layered, weaving childhood memory, resentment, tenderness, and mortality into one tapestry. The details, football in the yard, betting slips hidden in the toilet, marathons retold faster each time, make Derek vivid and flawed, yet deeply human. The closing exchange about death is devastating in its honesty, stripping away all myth and bravado to reveal fear. It reads like a confession of complicated love, anger and distance intertwined with gratitude and recognition, ending in the stark truth that even the strongest runners cannot outrun mortality. Fantastic write.
Thank you for such a generous reading. You caught so many of the threads I hoped would surface—the contradictions of tenderness and anger, distance and devotion, all stitched together through time. I wanted Derek to feel both ordinary and mythic in his failings, and the act of remembering him to feel like repair work, imperfect but necessary.
Thank you so much, Dave. That means a lot. Those unchosen relationships — the ones that form us quietly, even through resistance — seem to leave the deepest marks. I’m glad those lines resonated with you.
Thank you that’s beautifully put. I suppose it did become a kind of eulogy, though I hadn’t intended it that way. Writing it felt more like stitching together fragments of memory until they began to resemble love.
Vivid scenes, strong emotions, all folded into one solid poem. And at the end, the naked fear of death, exposed. This is the power of poetry to also paint. Maria
I love how you phrased that - the power of poetry to paint. That’s exactly what I hoped for here, to render emotion as image, fear as something we can almost see. I really appreciate you reading and feeling it so deeply.
It's odd thing at how powerfully we balk at names like Dad and words like love when young. My best time was 2:58 and I called he who whacked me for being ill-mannered, who worked in a factory to put food on the table, and who, though my mother begged me, I could only call Pop, as if names and words were sores that healed into forever tender scars. The young women who host classical music programs here, drop their whispers pronouncing the names of composers. I can't decide if it's because names hurt because a species of mutual exposure or because they obviate music's uncontrollably effervescent intimacy, best managed quietly. When I was 8 or 9 I knew a farmgirl named Lovey, who also liked me, both of which plunged me into paralytic embarrassment. Anyhow, good work, Allum!
Excellent writing. So many emotions...I think I was holding my breath as I read it.
just subscribed - would love to be part of something like this!
"Still, he is embroidered beneath my skin" what a powerful piece
This was tender and vulnerable. Thank you for sharing it so honestly.
Thank you for reading and for saying that. Writing it felt like stepping into a space I’d avoided for a long time, I’m grateful it came across with that honesty.
This feels raw and layered, weaving childhood memory, resentment, tenderness, and mortality into one tapestry. The details, football in the yard, betting slips hidden in the toilet, marathons retold faster each time, make Derek vivid and flawed, yet deeply human. The closing exchange about death is devastating in its honesty, stripping away all myth and bravado to reveal fear. It reads like a confession of complicated love, anger and distance intertwined with gratitude and recognition, ending in the stark truth that even the strongest runners cannot outrun mortality. Fantastic write.
Thank you for such a generous reading. You caught so many of the threads I hoped would surface—the contradictions of tenderness and anger, distance and devotion, all stitched together through time. I wanted Derek to feel both ordinary and mythic in his failings, and the act of remembering him to feel like repair work, imperfect but necessary.
This is wonderful. So real.
A very moving poem full of sharp lines and angles.
Thank you — I love that description. Life rarely unfolds in smooth curves, does it? The sharp edges are often where the light gets in.
Life certainly has its jagged edges
Oh my goodness! This is such a captivating tribute to Derek. It's moving when someone can inspire us this way.
This is a beautiful poem, GK.
"Still, he is embroidered beneath my skin
The tapestry of our years
folded into my existence."
All the complexity of human relationships - and especially those we did not choose, but which shape us anyway.
Best Wishes - Dave :)
Thank you so much, Dave. That means a lot. Those unchosen relationships — the ones that form us quietly, even through resistance — seem to leave the deepest marks. I’m glad those lines resonated with you.
It really is a poem of the complexity and variety of love; one of those poems that stays with me. I am a Father and Step Father myself….
Best Wishes - Dave :)
Wonderful portrait of a person and your relationship.
A special eulogy, perhaps, tender and proud
Thank you that’s beautifully put. I suppose it did become a kind of eulogy, though I hadn’t intended it that way. Writing it felt more like stitching together fragments of memory until they began to resemble love.
Vivid scenes, strong emotions, all folded into one solid poem. And at the end, the naked fear of death, exposed. This is the power of poetry to also paint. Maria
I love how you phrased that - the power of poetry to paint. That’s exactly what I hoped for here, to render emotion as image, fear as something we can almost see. I really appreciate you reading and feeling it so deeply.
Powerful
This is so lovely. The stark truth embedded in poetic form. Thank you for sharing with us.
Thank you for taking the time to read the poem but also send me a lovely note. Appreciated.
It's odd thing at how powerfully we balk at names like Dad and words like love when young. My best time was 2:58 and I called he who whacked me for being ill-mannered, who worked in a factory to put food on the table, and who, though my mother begged me, I could only call Pop, as if names and words were sores that healed into forever tender scars. The young women who host classical music programs here, drop their whispers pronouncing the names of composers. I can't decide if it's because names hurt because a species of mutual exposure or because they obviate music's uncontrollably effervescent intimacy, best managed quietly. When I was 8 or 9 I knew a farmgirl named Lovey, who also liked me, both of which plunged me into paralytic embarrassment. Anyhow, good work, Allum!