They stand beside us even as we grieve,
The lone and left behind whom no one claimed,
Unnumbered multitudes, he lifts above
The shadow of the gibbet and the grave,
To triumph where all saints are known and named;
from All Saints a poem by Malcolm Guite for Halloween
I was ten
That winter night
When my brain
Burned with fever
And I lay
That you had come back
From the firmament;
An unwinged angel
Sitting at my bedside
That sounded like fire
In my ears.
I don’t know
If it was real anymore.
Maybe it was just yearning
To touch you once more
The way the blind read braille;
Or maybe it was just
The hot syllables of sickness
Wailing like sinners
At a tent revival
Behind my burning eyes.
But whatever it was
That night, with the snow
Beginning to fall
Your hand touched my skin
And the fever broke.
Tom Darin Liskey is a poet and a photographer
The photograph and the poem are his work
Mon père est mort il y a 4 ans aujourd’hui, quelle est sa présence aux jours d’aujourd’hui ? Quels sont les fruits de cette relation père – fille ?
Elle forme un élément important de presque tout ce que je fais. Aux féministes qui en veulent aux hommes, je suis souvent tentée de dire « Où serais-je sans mon père ? »
Je le remercie de la confiance et du respect que j’éprouve pour les hommes, pour mes nombreux amis, pour la joie de voir mes fils grandir.
Men called you light so as to load you down,
And burden you with their own weight of sin,
A woman forced to cover and contain
Those seven devils sent by Everyman.
But one man set you free and took your part
One man knew and loved you to the core
The broken alabaster of your heart
Revealed to Him alone a hidden door,
Into a garden where the fountain sealed,
Could flow at last for him in healing tears,
Till, in another garden, he revealed
The perfect Love that cast out all your fears,
And quickened you with love’s own sway and swing,
As light and lovely as the news you bring.