Poem: The Parable of the Man of Grief

It has been about a year since a fight with my father led to my
decision to stop speaking to him.

In November last year I had a falling out with my father. In some ways, it was what I expected to happen when I went over to his house that day, after not visiting him for over a year because of personal mental and emotional struggles and obligations to school and my job. I knew he wouldn’t understand my reasons for staying distant, even though I was doing most of the suffering and experiencing all of the guilt—and I certainly couldn’t admit that I actually felt a little better by not feeling obligated to visit him when all he did was drink and talk badly about everyone I loved.

Excepting that visit last fall, I have not seen or spoken to my father for two years, collectively. I knew it hurt him and fostered much bitterness and hatred for which my father is infamous. But in my one-sided attempt at a tolerable father-son relationship, none of my struggles mattered to him, and neither did my love for him. Though the phone works both ways, the maintenance of our bond rested solely on my shoulders, and I had failed in his eyes.

His first words to me when he answered the door were not that he missed me, or was glad to see me—they were “I haven’t seen you in a year.” He counted every day of negligence so he could hurl them in my face the moment I came back to admit my mistake; that is so his style, and I knew it would happen. The other details of that visit are not necessary; I’ve shared them with close loved ones and made peace with what happened. But I left his house abruptly, at his order, and the tears began to flow the moment I got into my car a drove away. It was one of the hardest cries I’ve had in years.

The parable of the Good Samaritan, as depicted here by Dan
Burr, inspired the hymn that then inspired my poem about my dad.

The next time I saw my therapist after the encounter, he and I had a really good session talking about my dad and my personal issues that I feel stem from my relationship with him. I asked Chris, my therapist, if there was a way to work through some of my “daddy issues” after I had identified several in that session, and he just encouraged creative means, like journaling, music, poetry, etc. Without total resolve, I made a note in my mind to try to write a poem about my dad someday. It was in my thoughts, but not a priority.

In early 2017, perhaps 2016 as well, I had been spending my restless nights trying to memorize all the verses to the hymn “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” I’ve always liked the tune, and had a couple of the verses already committed to memory, so I made a goal to memorize the rest. I would go over and over them in my head until I fell asleep, and get up in the morning sometimes and check the verses where I knew I had made errors. I decided after I had memorized the whole song that I really loved the rhythm and rhyming scheme, and that someday I would write a poem or hymn text to that same pattern.

New Year’s Eve of 2017, in the wee hours, I lay in bed again restless, and remembered these two goals—to write a poem about my dad, and to use the rhyming pattern from the hymn. So, like I have done many times in the past, I just started imagining lines in my head. The second verse came to me first, and I finished the entire verse in its essence before I fell asleep. Verses one and three I also worked out almost in their entirety before retiring. The theme that came from each verse as I made them up was that of a man in different stages of life, progressively succumbing to a miserable self-induced fate—just like my father.

Once I had the rhyming scheme and imagery together in my head,
the poem about my dad's tragic life was created rather quickly.

I awoke by noon the next day, showered, and got ready to go to my mom’s like I would any other Sunday, holiday notwithstanding. Before I left I sat down and typed out the verses I remembered from the night before so I wouldn’t lose them. I sat there on my computer for maybe half an hour and tweaked the verses a bit as I gave Mom time to run to the store before I drove down. Then I went to my mom’s house and came home just after ringing in the New Year 2018.

I was eager to get back on the computer and work on the poem. Because of my tendency to make poems with many verses, I decided I would make this one shorter, but of course with an even number of verses as per my OCD. I had three written out and the beginnings of a fourth, so I decided on six total. With the help of a thesaurus and rhyming dictionary when I got stumped, I finished the poem around 2:00AM. I was very happy with it. Though I didn’t feel the Spirit of the Lord as strongly as I have in the past when writing inspired pieces, I nevertheless knew that this piece was helped along by divine blessing.

I sent the poem via email to a select few close friends, and then I went to bed. I decided on the title for this poem because of the fact that I was inspired by the rhyming scheme of “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” It’s kind of funny, too, but I also read just a day or two before some new Harry Potter books: “Quidditch through the Ages,” and “The Tales of Beetle the Bard” (well, they were new to me). The latter is a book of short stories with morals, like fairytales, but for the wizarding world; both are written by J.K. Rowling.

The latter book left me in a sort of whimsical mood, and I know that when I went to bed that night after reading them, there was inspiration from that book in the way I formed the verses for my new poem. I also had similar inspiration from the sort-of whimsical feel of the hymn itself, and I tried to mimic that feeling while also giving the poem a contemporary, modern application (because the stories about the man in the poem are taken from my dad’s own life and personality and my feelings towards him).

Though certain elements of my poem are symbolic, the piece still
reflects my feelings of growing up with an alcoholic parent.

I should also mention that in my Family Studies courses the last couple of semesters, I’ve learned a great deal about the family of origin and how the environment in which we are reared affects individuals for a lifetime, for good or for bad. I am realizing that much of my dad’s bitterness and misery are from his rough upbringing, which I still know little about. I do not offer that as an excuse (as the last line of the poem denotes—he had a choice), but it helps me cope by knowing that I am not the cause of his grief and pain. It makes me feel sorry for him, and honestly, helps me to forgive him for what he does to our family through his drinking and pride.

I almost decided to change the name of the poem to “The Parable of the Broken Man” because I thought it sounded more compelling. But first I looked up the definition of the word ‘grief’ and realized it was perfect for the man in my poem, and for my dad, upon whom the fictional man is based; the definition for ‘grief’ was “keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.” The last two words of that definition fit well, but stung a little as I comprehended the miserable end my dad is slowly crawling towards; a sense of regret overwhelms the somber end of the Man of Grief.

I shared this poem on Facebook at the request of family and friends, after I had posted vaguely about how creating the poem was the best part of my New Year’s festivities. It was so satisfying to have this sober reflection recorded permanently on paper, like a lens into my heart, my father’s heart, and the painful relationship we’ve shared.

My therapist told me, in his office that day when we talked about my father, that it was okay to let people go when their actions were toxic and harmful to us. He assured me that as much as it hurts, and even though the confrontation was not my fault, it was okay to think about my mental wellness and emotional health by setting boundaries with my father to prevent him from hurting me more and causing more damage. My therapist reminded me that I can still love my father—and certainly, I do—but I can make the choice to no longer let his choices affect me.

I only wish that the regrettable choices my father’s parents made, and the hurt that he has kept with him for so long could be washed away by something stronger than a million cans of cheap beer. Perhaps only God will ever truly know and understand the stony depths of my father’s heart.

❧

– The Parable of the Man of Grief – 

~ 

A tender boy there was who longed 

For gentle care and love refined, 

But by his fam’ly he was wronged 

And learned to isolate his mind. 

He had no place to turn for peace, 

But through his anger found release; 

From all his grief away he ran, 

And grew to be a broken man. 

A young man sought to drown his woes, 

So to his lips he put strong drink. 

A slurring speech replaced his prose; 

He ceased to feel, he could not think. 

Then laid he on his bed to rest, 

The bottle still clutched to his chest; 

But when he woke and rubbed his eyes, 

The pain returned—to his surprise. 

A father worked hard to provide, 

But fam’ly was to him a slight; 

His love for them he cast aside 

And took his poison every night— 

Indulged his thirst to great excess 

To drive away his deep distress, 

And as he slumped down in his chair 

It’s like he wasn’t even there.

A man with heart so insecure 

Learned only how to praise himself; 

His conscience he would self-assure 

And boast about his skills and wealth. 

His pride laid ruin to his life— 

He lost his children and his wife; 

He watched them go, but with a scoff 

Insisted he was better off. 

An old man carried much regret 

For words unsaid and deeds undone; 

With hardened heart, he would not let 

Himself be loved by anyone. 

He mourned for all the wasted years— 

The time was past for shedding tears. 

He saw now as he reached his end: 

The bottle was his only friend. 

The mem’ry of a man lived on 

Within the hearts of those who knew 

The roots of suff’ring long foregone— 

The hurt that he could not undo. 

And from his life they kept the best— 

Preserved the good, forgave the rest; 

But still lamented deep within 

The man they wish he could have been. 

~ 

- Wade A. Walker - 

January 1, 2018

~

** NOTE:  I share my writing on this site trusting that visitors are scrupulous enough not to plagiarize. If you'd like to share this poem or other content with others, please share the URL to the entire blog post. Please DO NOT copy and paste any text for personal use without written permission. As the original writer of the content herein, I’d like the credit for these pieces to remain mine. **