A series of horses decreasing in size

Gold cherry

By lavadis

Tue, 18 Feb 2025
  • 222 reads
12 comments
 
 
My parents had at least three children 
it’s difficult to put a final number on it
one of them was me 
the others were not
 
My childhood was punctuated by a series of explosions 
that no one else could hear
 
This was the 1960’s 
when children were supposed to be invisible 
everyone was allowed to hit you 
back then,
the lollipop lady
the man who ran 
the corner shop
school teachers - they were given fucking weapons 
And your parents 
And your parents
 
I was recently sent a 
black and white photograph 
of another 
particularly shit holiday 
with my mother and father
when I was about 
7 years old
 
Photographers earned a crust snapping tourists 
walking on the promenade 
and in the photograph 
my mother and I have 
somehow 
composed our faces into smiles 
whereas my father 
cannot bring himself to do anything 
but 
grimace 
 
I am a kettle which boiled 
in a vacuum 
I am the product of an argument which turned into a war and then went 
for a two week holiday 
in Somerset 
 
Like a series of horses decreasing in size 
I spent my childhood 
standing at the end of a long line
no less significant 
than the
others  
but somehow
too far away 
to see 

 

Certificate 18
Poem
Poetry

Comments

Submitted by celticman on

wow. exactly. I once gave a talk and one of my lines were: Everybody was allowed to hit you. And they'd think of a good reason for it later. 

Aye.  

 

Submitted by lavadis on

Absolutely Jack 

 

Submitted by MarciaMarcia on

Your poem opened a box hidden in the depths of me, I knew it was there but chose not to take it off its shelves, the many we all have inside that we decide to not remember too often. It is a furry and a tragedy that such abuse  and neglect and worse, was allowed in those days. But those of us who had an ego strength we knew nothing about, survived, and developed into feelingful people. Those days oddly helped mold our futures, seeking expression and seeking others that we might understand and try and help along their way. 
the opened boxes close and are put away again, but sadly, the body memories and trigger points and even flash backs endure forever. We are both vulnerable and strong, child,still and adult and we go on and achieve that which we must in our journey through our lifetime. 
Bravo ... your courage is strong.   MarciaMarcia.   Thank You LAvadis 

Submitted by lavadis on

Thank you so much - so very eloquently put from a fellow victim and soul sister 

 

Submitted by jolono on

Hi Mate, loved this. Brought back memories. Mr Whittle with his oversized slipper, Mrs Harvey with the palm of her hand, Mr Bush with his cane, Mr Charman with the board rubber. I was hit with all of these. I can smile and laugh about it, but others can't. Another wonderful poem. As you know I don't do poetry but always love the way you put words together.

 

Submitted by lavadis on

I have missed hearing from you. Yes Mr Turnball who yanked out a lump of hair and scalp, Mr Gerry who was so frightening I couldn't ask him if I could use the loo, the teacher when I was 7 who stood me on a chair and hit my hands for spelling mistakes despite being dyslexic - that hadn't been accepted as a condition. And then there was my home. 

 

Submitted by Penny4athought on

I'm sure this was a difficult poem to write; I'm happy you didn't let the dark memories fester within, that you wrote them out and held them up to the sunlight so they can wither away and you can emerge, whole and beautiful as you're meant to be.

Penny4athought

Submitted by lavadis on

I was sent this photo last week by someone proving to me that this narrative continues - see he is a child and he looks happy - none of it happened. Well it bloody did happen and it hurt inside and outside. I am a 63 year old man who still flinches if a hand comes near my face or a person stands behind me when I am sitting. Now I survived it and I am in a far better place and expressing the hurt makes a massive difference 

 

Submitted by marandina on

There's a beauty in the underlying honesty of this poem. I can completely relate to it.

This is today's Facebook, X/Twitter and BlueSky Pick of the Day.

Congratulations.

 

Submitted by lavadis on

That is so very kind of you. 

 

Submitted by Turlough on

A great poem for bringing back vivid memories of being hit myself. Parents, school teachers and nuns were the main assailants in my case but the list is endless. I gave up going to Cubs following an outburst from a particularly violent Akela.

Our holiday experiences seem to overlap too.

 

Turlough

Submitted by Caldwell on

Heartbreaking. Excellent. Unhappy memories that leave a stain. A leaden blanket that looks like it should give comfort but instead is cold and weighs you down - an extra layer of gravity. Why make all the effort to go on a family holiday if it's just to show new strangers how your family fails, how care and delight are so off the beaten track?