The field

A metaphor for - whatever you take out of it!

The Field

 

how long had the man been in the field?

where had he come from?

where was he going?

these matters might be a mystery to us,

but the truth was they were far from his mind!

he was just ‘in the field’

 

one fact was certain, however

he was moving, but his progress was unbearably slow

head down, he moved forward laboriously

one step at a time, heaving one rubber booted foot

from the sucking mud, moving it forward a few inches

to sink back into the same grey squelching earth

only to repeat the tedious process with the other boot

 

the man kept his head down,

cowering under the rim of his waterproof hat

scant shelter from the perpetual chill rain

all he saw was the grey glutinous mud at his feet

when he did raise his grey and deeply furrowed face

all he could see was the grey and deeply furrowed field

it stretched as far as he could see

parallel lines of heaped earth a few feet apart

sodden ditches between,

reflecting the grey sodden cloud

which seemed almost within reach

and which in all directions

merged into the grey earth below

with no sign of emotion the man lowered his face

the field was the man’s whole universe

grey earth, grey cloud,

a grey man stumbling, step by pitiful step

across a grey muddy field

 

but we’ll not watch the man for too long

we’ll look away, concern ourselves with other things

in our own universe

perhaps later, much later, we’ll look again

time will have passed for us

but nothing will have changed for the man

 

he is still crossing the field step by step

below the grey sky that lours over him

for the man crossing the field

time has ceased to exist in any meaningful sense

his slow steps across the furrows measure his passage

through space and time

left boot forward, right boot forward,

squelch, squelch

left, right, left, right

tick, tock, tick, tock

 

but as we watch, he stops,

a fissure has appeared in his universe

a scattering of torn and sodden pieces of paper

lie on the grey earth, float in the ditch

he bends down and picks one up

an old photograph, the image dirty and fading

a young woman with two children in a park

he gazes long at the image, uncomprehendingly

suddenly a neurone sparks, he gasps

‘mum, Jessie my sister, and that’s me!’

he picks up another mud stained photograph,

this time a youth with a middle aged man

the synapses fire easier this time

‘that’s me again and dad, we went to the football

two- nil to the rovers, Taylor scored in the last minute.’

he picks up the last photo, looks long at it, puzzling

a wedding photo, the couple obviously in love

a memory wells up, tantalises,

then slips away, lost forever

he shakes his head and throws it back in the dirt.

 

he pulls his left boot from the dirt, moves it forward

the photographs are left behind

forgotten by the time he has moved his right boot forward

and so for the man in the field

time passes, or doesn’t pass

he moves across the field slowly, or has he moved at all

as the field has no beginning or no end

under the grey louring sky

Reviews

[Kathy Van Kurin]

'The field'
alangraham,
'he moves across the field slowly, or ahs he moved at all' this line is one of the many which show how a person may function when the being is winding down. I think that people simply eventually burn out, mind and body. I liked your application of the contrast of former life with family and loved one with use of photographs. Life is precious.
Blessings,
Kathy

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Kathy. My 91 year old mother has signs of dementia and it frustrating for her when she can't remember but also amazing when clear memories surface from the distant past. The only blessing is that she is unaware. Hope you are well. Winter is arriving here but spring not too far behind.
Alan

[Kathy Van Kurin]

Someone near to us as well is going through the same thing. Your writing is very clear regarding this topic. I loved your above last line. Take care dear writing friend.
Kathy

[Armistead Lindsey]

Have you ever read the works of:
Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Angela Carter?

Reason I ask:
The use of physical surrounding in the powerful imagery produces a likeness to much of Hughes work, reminds me of November Rain.

Varied line length that contrasts the metaphoric and literal meaning is shows an eerie likeness to much of Plath's work - especially tulips.

The recurrent imagery and it's symbolic use rings in the back of my mind much in the same way red did when reading the Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter.


I raise this points in contrary to the other reviews I have seen as writing, especially poetry is not mean to be short sharp verses in every instance, and often the longer it takes to read the more satisfying it is. Both to the writer, who will likely be using the length to convey a point - which you seem to be doing, and to the reader because a more intense focus is needed to find meaning. In this poem you've utilized the same techniques as three very wonderful (and famous) writers, and you've done so very successfully in my opinion.

It's a wonderful piece highlighting the way a mind, cursed by dementia, holds focus on many things while focusing on nothing and recalls only what it can and when it can.

Well done.

[alanwgraham]

I really appreciate your review. You are very well read and I must check out your references. It's very gratifying when someone (a good writer) gets what you are trying to do. You prob find that your writing just feels right (not always
Thanks again, alan

[Armistead Lindsey]

writing is all about feeling, regardless of what those feelings are....

[Cherrie Palmer]

I too am partial to the get on and get out, methodology of poetry. However I found this poem an enjoyable read.

[alifeacoustic]

Sometimes getting lost in another's thoughts or actions lead us to contemplate our own actions in this 24/7, constant rush that is life and we see the true person within our view. Sometimes their plight an be heart aching to watch, but watch we do, as we reflect on the poor soul that has been lost to the ravages of time, whilst thinking "there but for the grace....."
I really enjoy the style of this write, where your words beg to be read slowly and thoughtfully, as the images burst fourth as the tale unfolds. This is the type of writing that I strive for, where words can be savoured and lines convey more than the sum of their parts. Superbly captured Alan

[jacob erin-cilberto]

there are those who are caught up in the rush of life...moving from place to place, job to job, never being able to stop and really savor life...too caught up in what's next...and still there are those few who take the pace one slow step at a time...but for those it is tough because they seem to get swallowed up in the others' pace, and forgotten---this reminds me of how much i would love to go back to the old days...when life seemed more simple....
excellent journey here....one careful step at a time.

[Sergei]

Too many words; a laborious read; vague ideas. This is a good poem, but it is too blurry, too fuzzy around the edges. You need to sharpen and focus it. Also, such long poems tend to bore the reader, especially when the sentences used are too long and the writer takes too long to make a point.

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Shiraz. I appreciate your comments and have found them very helpful. My intention was to make this a metaphor on dementia but not make this explicit for the reader. I was a bit anxious that i had overdone the length of the first section but I wanted to use it to deliberately produce a feeling of the monotony of dementia. The discovery of the photos were meant to indicate the triggers for long term memories. Thanks again! Alan