Poetry

Posted by Vale

The Deciphering

How busy we are with the dead in their infancy,
who are still damp with the sweat of their passing,
whose hair falls back to reveal a scar.

We think of wiping their skin, attending them
in the old way, but are timid, ignorant.
We walk from the high table where they are laid

leaving their flesh royally mounded
just as they have left it
for the undertakers to cherish.

We consider the last kiss,
the taste and grain of it.
The lift door squeezes open, then shut.

All days we think we have lost our car keys.
There is a feeling in the back of the mind
as we eat a meal out on the balcony

but the door refuses to open
and although my sisters have prepared food elaborately
you do not advance to us, smiling.

The children have put sauce on the side of their plates
thinking you will come and swipe a chip,
thinking this meal is one you cooked

as always, humming to yourself in the kitchen,
breaking off to tap the barometer
and watch starlings roost on the pier.

How long it takes to stop being busy with that day,
each second of it like the shard
of a pot which someone laboured to dig up

and piece together without knowledge
of language or context.
Slow, slow the deciphering.

This marvelous poem is taken from Helen Dunmore’s new collection The Malarkey.

The midnight hour, the darkest hour
That human grief may know,
Sends forth it’s hurried summons-
Ask me to come—I go!

I know not when the bell may toll,
I know not where the blow may fall,
I only know that I must go
In answer to the call.

Perhaps a friend—perhaps unknown-
‘Tis fate that turns the wheel-
The tangled skein of human life
Winds slowly on the reel.

And I? – I’m the undertaker,
“Cold-Blooded,” you’ll hear them say,
“Trained to the shock and chill of death,
With a heart that’s cold and grey.”

Trained—that’s what they call it
How little they know the rest-
I’m human, and know the sorrow
That throbs in the aching breast.

Bennett Chapple

Posted by Vale

It happens so often: you sit with someone for hours or, sometimes, days yet the person you have accompanied with so much love and care chooses to die the moment you leave the room. This is Dianne Fahey’s poem about the experience.

(i)

We, your children, were there
In other rooms

And my mother beside you;
Yet you died

Without witnesses…
Was that how you wished it,

Death’s ultimate privacy?
So clear and frail you lay

Jaw set in closure,
the drama consummated.

I was the one who’d known
inside my bones

how far from death,
and when you would go.

But, guiltily tired,
I kept no vigil,

Was called from dreams
by my brother. All of us

Kept watch for a while
slept again.

(ii)

Long ago.
You’d let me sleep,

An exhausted eight year old,
rather than take myself to mass.

Unversed in mortal sin,
you’d calmed my sorrow

saying, ‘God will understand’ –
unwaveringly as if you knew.

Once only did you use that word,
eschewing fixities

Though prey to restless doubt.
Later you’d ask

did I ever wonder
what it was all about,

your mind working at
puzzles, painful memories.

You anchored yourself
in what you had learnt,

the knowledge of what you must do.
Out of innocence,

a quietly difficult life,
you shaped a wisdom

And inherit the reward of seeking:
the gift of a good death

You can find more of Diane Fahey’s poetry here.

Goldfish Swirl

We loved our fat Fred and sweet Dinah,
Who came to us from the goose fair.
As John threw his balls in a fish bowl,
…Then chose his first prize with great care.

The fish sloshed and dangled in plastic,
In little hands grubby and warm.
He carried them home oh so proudly,
…Wondering what tricks they’d perform.

The bag split and spilled in the bathroom,
The goldfish flopped out with a plop.
The hand basin was far from perfect,
…So we bought a bowl from a shop.

The fish bowl was all round and sparkling,
With a bridge and green plant or two.
Johnny watched and eagerly waited,
…To see what these new friends would do.

They swam all around without memory,
Gumming food flakes light as fresh air.
John went off to bed feeling happy,
…But morning brought depths of despair.

With blind eyes, Fred floated and wriggled,
While Dinah lay dead on the floor.
Heartbroken Johnny let out a shriek,
…And sobbed as he ran for the door.

Oh what can we do? Where will they go?
Fred and Dinah were simply the best.
Don’t worry son, I’ll get you the Queen –
…Miss Mundi – to lay them to rest.

She came upon the sad sorry scene,
I remember she wore bright blue.
We sang a hymn, she said a short prayer,
…Squeezed into the downstairs loo.

She said nice words about John’s best friends,
As they swirled around in the pan.
She never mentioned that they were… DEAD,
…Pull the flush now, brave little man.

The goldfish have gone up to heaven,
Least that’s what the clergymen think.
(We know they’ve gone out with the sewage
…to the farm where everything stinks.)

I paid her cash and thanked her so much
Johnny stared and said: I feel mean…
I’m famished and watching them floating
…makes me hungry for toast and……..sardines!

juno gatsby march 2012

Posted by Belinda Forbes

In the foreword to the 2008 edition of her book WITH THESE HANDS, Pam Ayres writes that something unexpected has happened, ‘one of the poems … seems to have become popular at wedding receptions.’  Pam may be interested to know that I have occasionally been asked to read one of her poems at a funeral ceremony.  Many people say to me about the deceased, ‘She wasn’t really a poetry kind of person.’ And then with a smile they add, ‘Except for Pam Ayres – of course!’

So here’s one of my favourites, for all the mums who are gone but not forgotten.

With These Hands by Pam Ayres

With these hands so soft and clean,
On which I stroke the Vaseline,
I soothe the fever, cool the heat,
Lift verrucas out of feet,
Slap the plasters on the knees,
Dig the garden, prune the trees,
And if it doesn’t work at all,
I throw the mower at the wall.
With these hands I crack the eggs,
Floss my teeth, shave my legs,
Write the cheques, count the fivers,
Make rude signs at piggish drivers,
Clean the goldfish, light the fires,
Pump up half a dozen tyres,
Feed the hamster, worm the dog
And decorate the Yuletide log.
With these hands I block the lens
When taking photos of my friends,
This is Mary, this is Fred,
See their eyeballs all gone red.
With them I gesticulate,
I wag a finger, say, ‘You’re late!’
Throw them up, say, “Don’t ask me!”
And, ‘What’s that in your hand? Let’s see!’

With these hands, I fondly make,
A brontosaurus birthday cake,
I’m sorry for the shape it’s in,
But half of it stuck in the tin.
I pop the corn, I pick the mix,
I whack the cricket ball for six,
I organise the party game,
And clean up things too vile to name.
No pair of jeans do I refuse,
No Levis, Wranglers or FUs,
I wash them fast, I mend them quick,
I sew through denim hard and thick,
For no repair job makes me frown,
I take them up, I let them down,
I do the fly, I do the rip,
I do the knee, I do the zip.
And with these hands I dab the eyes,
Officiate at fond goodbyes,
As in the earth we gravely dig
The late lamented guinea pig.
I bow my head, cross my chest,
And lay his furry soul to rest,
Reflecting that, on many a day,
I could have helped him on his way.
I greet the folks who bang the door,
Fill the mouths that shout for more,
Scrape the trainers free of muck,
Gut the fish and stuff the duck,
I cart the shopping, heave the coal,
Stick the plunger down the bowl,
Take foreign bodies from the eye
And with these hands I wave
Goodbye.

Reproduced by kind permission of Pam Ayres, from her book, WITH THESE HANDS, published by Orion Books.