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“I am coloured by my father’s Far and painted image. In a thousand lines of broken questions, I have tried to find Some thread, some bind That would peep me through the locked Doors of his life and why I am as I stand. He drank gin with a sense of humour, He was thin and killed by a tumour. In twenty words, his full-fleshed life Is boned for approval, In twenty words, I am lured away And buried in the obscurities Of twenty thousand lives, not so different. Twenty stories told by twenty people Nurture confused and distracted poetry. I am not certain that he was a man And was indeed my father, I am not sure, And yet, I am coloured by my father’s Far and painted image.” — Gordon Roddick
I am coloured by my father’s
Far and painted image.
In a thousand lines of broken questions,
I have tried to find
Some thread, some bind
That would peep me through the locked
Doors of his life and why I am as I stand.
He drank gin with a sense of humour,
He was thin and killed by a tumour.
In twenty words, his full-fleshed life
Is boned for approval,
In twenty words, I am lured away
And buried in the obscurities
Of twenty thousand lives, not so different.
Twenty stories told by twenty people
Nurture confused and distracted poetry.
I am not certain that he was a man
And was indeed my father, I am not sure,
And yet, I am coloured by my father’s
Far and painted image.