An Alchemy of Words

The Bully Pit

"The Bully Pit"

Young, he stood before us,

back

(in the black)

of the blueberry patch,

driven against the rim of the gravel pit,

his feet an inch away from nothing.

We swarmed around him, staring

(daring)

him down,

the five of us, so much greater

(more hated)

than he.

An ancient fir leaned out

against the twilight,

a blackened, diagonal wound.

Its roots, once young like he,

now clung desperately to the thinning peat,

thinking

(sinking)

that it could draw itself straight,

unable to comprehend that,

like the haunted

(taunted)

boy before us,

it was a victim of forces

even we, ourselves,

could barely understand.

˗ˏˋ・。☆.・゜✭・.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
✫・゜・。.・。. ✭

Back to the wilds of Labrador and that fateful gravel pit, the ancient Ur-memory at the root of so much of my work. Did the events of this poem ever actually occur? I don't think so but it's hard to be sure, now that I'm so many years removed from the writing of this poem, let alone the Ur-memory that inspired it.

Like most kids, there were days when I was bullied and also days when I was the bully. I know and regret that much. Sometimes I wonder what has become of those I hurt and lashed out at in my time. If you're out there, know that I'm sorry and know that I don't take kindly to bullying when I see or experience it now as an adult.

But was I the bully then and there, as a young boy at the edge of that gravel pit in Labrador? My memories have always been a faulty thing, woven from half-truths, shorthand, and the need to be the hero of my own narrative. But I truly doubt I had the social capital to be a bully there, let alone to lead a gang of five. But perhaps I didn't lead. It's worse, in ways, to be a follower, to legitimize something through one's own inaction.

Truth? Lies? History? Fiction? I can no longer see the shape of it through the mists. All I have now is the poetry. I can only hope that it's enough.