You are viewing a free preview of this lesson.
Subscribe to unlock all 18 lessons in this course and every other course on LearningBro.
Ingrid de Kok is a South African poet born in 1951. She writes from a country whose recent history — apartheid, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, the long post-apartheid settlement — has inevitably shaped even her most intimate work. My Father Would Not Show Us, from her 1988 collection Familiar Ground, is an elegy for her father, but it is also a meditation on reticence: on what a father did not show his children in his life, and on what his body refuses to show in death.
The title is drawn from a 19th-century poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, which de Kok quotes as an epigraph: "Which way does your face lie now?" The question — addressed to the dead father — frames the poem as a last act of looking at someone who spent his life partly turned away.
| Aspect | Detail |
|---|---|
| Poet | Ingrid de Kok (1951–) |
| Collection | Familiar Ground, 1988 |
| Period | Late apartheid / contemporary |
| Form | Free verse, short stanzas |
| Setting | Father's lying-in / funeral preparation |
| Epigraph | Ella Wheeler Wilcox |
The South African context is not the direct subject but is part of the atmosphere. De Kok is a poet who writes about public grief and about the private griefs that sit inside it. Here she writes about a father, but the reticence in the poem can also be read — lightly — as the reticence of an entire society about its own losses.
The speaker and her family gather around her father's body before the funeral. She wishes to understand him — to see him fully — but his face in death is still closed to her, as it was in life. She remembers that he would not show emotion, would not show his inner life. She looks now at the body, at its stillness, at what it refuses to reveal. The poem closes on the unresolved question: a daughter asking a father, finally, "which way does your face lie?"
The speaker is the adult daughter of the dead man. Her voice is controlled, attentive, loving but clear-eyed. The poem is not an outburst of grief; it is a carefully worded act of last-looking. There is love but also a kind of frustration: we tried to see you, and you didn't let us.
This restraint is the poem's signature — and it also, in a way, is inherited from the father. The daughter has learned from him how not to say everything, even as she writes a poem that criticises his unsaying.
| Feature | Detail |
|---|---|
| Form | Free verse |
| Stanzas | Short, uneven |
| Rhyme | Absent or very subtle |
| Epigraph | Wilcox's question frames the poem |
| Movement | Family scene → memory → direct address |
graph TD
E[Epigraph: Which way does your face lie now] --> A[Family around father's body]
A --> B[Memory of his reticence in life]
B --> C[Body's refusal in death]
C --> D[Closing return to the epigraph's question]
The free verse and short stanzas produce a poem of small, slow steps. The reader is not carried; the reader is walked through a quiet room.
The body as object. The father's body is observed — stilled — but is described with love, not estrangement. The adjectives are measured; there is no horror of the corpse, nor any sentimental softening.
Semantic field of concealment. "Would not show", "held back", "hid", "closed". The poem accumulates language of withholding. Reticence is the through-line.
Repeated question. The Wilcox epigraph — "Which way does your face lie now?" — hovers across the poem. The daughter keeps asking, in different forms, what the father's face reveals. The question is never fully answered.
South African resonance. The restrained, almost-ceremonial register recalls the dignity-under-loss tone of much South African writing of the period. The poem is intimate but not only private; it reads like a family version of a public mourning.
| Theme | How it operates |
|---|---|
| Parental reticence | The father withheld; the daughter wishes he had not |
| Elegy | The poem mourns a specific person, but also a way of being |
| The limits of knowing | Even in death the father is closed |
| Inherited silence | The poem's restraint echoes the father's |
| Allusive tradition | The Wilcox epigraph places the poem in a long elegiac lineage |
A strong reading notices that the poem does two things at once: it criticises the father's reticence and it practises a version of that reticence itself. The daughter will not shout; she will not sentimentalise; she will, like him, hold something back. The love in the poem is the more powerful for that resemblance.
| Partner | Shared ground | Productive contrast |
|---|---|---|
| A Child to His Sick Grandfather | Intergenerational love; attention to a dying body | Baillie's grandfather is open; de Kok's father is closed |
| Nettles | Father figure, protective presence | Scannell's father is active; de Kok's father is withholding |
| One Flesh | Adult child observing a parent | Jennings's parents are alive; de Kok's father is dead |
Both de Kok's My Father Would Not Show Us and Baillie's A Child to His Sick Grandfather are intergenerational poems that observe a parental body with love, but their family contracts differ sharply. Baillie's child speaks in simple ABAB quatrains, watching a grandfather who remains emotionally open — he has "told" and "carried", verbs the child anchors in shared past experience. De Kok's adult daughter writes in free verse and short stanzas, watching a father whose face in death refuses to answer the Wilcox epigraph's question, "Which way does your face lie now?" The father of My Father Would Not Show Us has been a practised concealer, and even his death does not release what he withheld; his body mirrors his living reticence. Both poems work through close physical attention — Baillie's "sunken cheek" and "thinner hand", de Kok's stilled face — but one poem watches a relationship still being conducted and the other watches a relationship whose terms can no longer be renegotiated. Baillie's child offers a cup; de Kok's daughter offers a question.
(Memorise exact wording from your anthology.)
Subscribe to continue reading
Get full access to this lesson and all 18 lessons in this course.