Tom Driscoll Writing
My wife paints now mostly. In the past she’s done installation art, sculptural and environmental work. Sometimes I’ll press her to interpret her work for me and she’ll remind me that this isn’t her job in the end. She works with intention; but there is a dimension to experiencing her art that is my responsibility, the responsibility of anyone who chooses to engage with it.
Poetry in song form, soliloquy, haiku, anecdotal, confessional—
“quite a bit of complaining sadly, but also prayerful moments, of due thanks and praise.”
Addressing loss or “absence” —seeking to understand and accept it, maybe even receive some aspect of the lack as blessing, something constant, present, perhaps even permanent —and singing.
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Is there praise to be sung
for the quiet hours he let anger pass
alone, unspeaking, for what he managed
not to break or curse, for the long walk north
famous in family lore
for each step, for what he carried into wilderness,
into cold distance, into his pale-skied absence?
Suppose one could share his story, and offer
some telling detail, so free to imagine
tall pine each side of the old logging roads
he travelled; places he stopped along the way,
creatures that watched him from the woods,
his long, long walk,
narrow heaven above.
What he came upon at last was
his history unknown and none to presume
fill his silence with what they thought they knew,
a place where he would neither be reminded
nor asked to forget the sweet face that became his grief.
He might finally have disappeared there completely
when we gave his name to our son.
Tom Driscoll Writing 