A Preferred Lie

[71degrees]

A Preferred Lie

Of all the places I’ve never been
and all the people I’ve never met,
these yards of water and grass
still connect me; it was you, father,
who taught me how to play the game.

Being here with you so many times,
and again, alone, last summer, dewy
mornings broken by cleated shoes;
no matter how years end,
your game remained a closed stance,
a gentle draw off the tee.

Aside the green was a hand pump,
long since removed, water taken
from the Chippewa River, clear
and cold, seamless, almost invisible;
it was always the water, left of the green,
in front of the green, the swell and flow
of the river, that held us together.

I don’t brood much about score,
with all its work and walk,
golf is the only game; returning
to #4’s tee box five years after your death
is like a stroke of cold grace; among the call
of wood doves, I’m a man-child waiting
by the water, knowing it’s only a slow turn
away from your different kind of life.

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A Preferred Lie

Of all the places I’ve never been oxford comma?
and all the people I’ve never met,
these yards of water and grass you, father, this span of water and grass; you, father,
who taught me how to play the game. taught me how to play.

Being here with you so many times, I recall being here with you so often
and again, alone, last summer, dewy semi colon?--last summer;
mornings broken by cleated shoes; (dewy) earth broken in by cleated shoes
no matter how years end,
your game remained a closed stance, em-dash here?
a gentle draw off the tee.

Aside the green was a hand pump, small well? (if it could work)
long since removed, water taken
from the Chippewa River, clear ...river, the fissure clear and cold
and cold, seamless, almost invisible;
it was always the water, left of the green, my memory is in the water, left...
in front of the green, the swell and flow
of the river, that held us together.

I don’t brood much about score,
with all its work and walk,
golf is the only game; returning
to #4’s tee box five years after your death
is like a stroke of cold grace; among the call over the call of wood doves?
of wood doves, I’m a man-child waiting I'm still a child, waiting
by the water, knowing it’s only a slow turn our river a slow turn
away from your different kind of life.

--------

Hey 71,

Thank you for posting. The memories of your speaker are beautiful
and haunting. I appreciate the water imagery and the observant
narration. I made some edits for diction and a little punctuation.

Your title implies that the speaker is caught in a day-dream, if you will,
that concerns the "what ifs," or the selective truths of this speaker's memories.
I almost want to see this title evolve into something like "In Another Light," or
"If Kindness were my Father," (but maybe a little less dramatic than that) because
the crux of this poem to me, really seems to revolve around the father figure of the speaker.
It isn't the game and the memory of the game-- though this plays an intrinsic part, but I think that
the game gives the speaker's father a great backdrop so the reader can
really see into the life of these people. The game, which very much so seems to be golf,
appears to be a strong vehicle for memory and the "essence" of who this other figure in the poem is.

As the reader, I want to connect more to the title, since the poem is
beautifully written, and contains important social themes.

Looking forward to seeing more from you :-]
VisualCondyle (Tara)

Thanks for your continuing attention to detail. However, I can tell you don't golf There are certain word usages (one is the title) that must remain.

Like some of your suggestions about punctuation though. Appreciate the look.