Friday 2 October 2015

Opening Act

I asked the wind to take it easy,
to keep it mild, light and breezy,
I said, " I thought of you this morning
when I saw the shepherds' warning,
I know you'll bring a stormy trail
and curtain call in full-on gale."

The wind replied, full of disdain:
"I'll do what I want with the waves and rain.
And I can make the air malevolent,
that's where I'm in my element.
I won't commit, I don't contract,
these gusts are just my opening act.
Just to confirm, as you might have guessed,
I'm a force of nature, I don't do requests.
It's October, you know, it's my time now,
I am the wind, I go anywhere anyhow.
What do I care for the plans you've made?
You can't regulate me any more than night and day."

The rain weighed in with a haughty-taughty sense,
"you do need some moderation, please temper yourself,
why are you so brazen, surely you can see,
you're not part of the equation, you're just a shelf for me.
And you're master of nothing, you don't swell the ocean,
that's down to the moon, you are full of lofty notions.
You're never in the right place at the right time
you're a law unto yourself on the ground and in the sky.
When forest fires are raging wild why don't you bring my rain?
Why insist on flying high just to fan the flames?"

"And when she takes her children kite-flying,"
the wind said, with a sigh,
"who is it makes the moment, who is it brings the smiles?"
"And when your washing's on the line," he said,
looking straight at me, "who do you rely on then?
The wind, that's who, that's me.
It's not I who sets the seasons, nor I who makes the dates.
I don't coin the reasons for festivals and fêtes.
That's all you, assuming that by the year dividing
you control the blooming, the wilting and the dying.
It's not I who builds the walls, nor I who digs down deep
I don't raise spires and sprawls of rock solid concrete.
That's all you, convinced of these lavish needs
neglecting that trapped draughts require release
and we'll go where we must to find that ease.
I am the wind, I blow where I please.
I won't bow out, whatever you say,
I know I'm the star and I own the stage."

(Explanation: It's October, it's windy, not too bad yet. It's been 2 years since my 'incident' with the wind: I saw our recycling flying all over the garden so I went out to the bin. I was just out the back door when the wind picked me up and lobbed me against the bank around our yard. You'd say something if I wasn't a bit overweight!
I used to love the sound of it around the house this time of year but now I listen for what destruction it's causing.
Where we live we have to accept strong gusts as par for the course and I know when we build tall concrete structures we're forcing the wind to gain momentum but I hate it! I fear a rough Winter ahead.)

Note on 04/10/2015: I had originally scheduled this to publish on 01/10/2015 but, because I would then need that date for my poem about my uncle's funeral (because I wanted the date stamp for his month's mind), I bumped it to 2nd October and forgot to edit it (I always have multiple drafts saved). So, it published but it wasn't finished. Today, I added some missing text and may still add more as I look through my drafts. Sorry if you thought it was disjointed, it was!

Thursday 1 October 2015

Cast His Mark

And there, afresh, cousins playing.
Second cousins test the gaming
from the edge. The smallest one
offers sweets to the tallest one,
a voucher to join the fun.
As we were at funerals,
the leveller of youth
brings the young to run
and settle chasing rules.

A man who knew he was but mortal
cast his mark in a concrete portal.

Timmy would have been
clasping a bunch of nettles
to make young ones scream
at the prospect of the pointed petals.
Guilt swept over me:
Did we have more of him
through nature's chicanery
than his six grandchildren?
And how lucky they are
that they could possess
even a micro part
of his loveliness.

A man who knew he was but mortal
cast his mark in a concrete portal.

No Kilmichael or Seán South
and later his favourite niece, by marriage, said
with sorry eyes and shaking mouth
that this was the first death
of someone she cared about.
He would be again alive
if it were that the deceased
could be to themselves revived
by family kissing cheeks.
And there, adults, cousins saying
about the second cousins playing
and those of them now fully grown
and those with children of their own.
How we must call. Wills and cans
exchanged, unsettled plans.

A man who knew he was but mortal
cast his mark in a concrete portal.

(Explanation: My uncle, Timmy Walsh, passed away on 01/09/2015. This poem is about his funeral. When I looked at my children playing with my cousins' children I was reminded of when I was a child at the funerals of much older relatives. 
Timmy was my uncle-in-law but I can safely say I'm not the only one who considered him right up there with our biological uncles. He was the loveliest man. We have memories of him chasing us with nettles when he and our aunt, Rita, would call to visit. Our entire neighbourhood of children would descend on our house when they'd see the Walsh's car coming up the road, they were all there for the chase and the bags of jellies Timmy would dole out afterwards. He used to also call out whenever he was driving a trailer for work and would take us and our friends off for a spin in it. Today, that would be impossible, it's illegal. There was one day that I remember a man in the car behind us blowing the horn to get our attention. He had a camera and we all waved for him. What I wouldn't give to track down that photo now.
I have many memories of Timmy but two popped into my head when I heard the news of his death:
1. Being very young and seeing my mother wearing lipstick. She never did and never has worn make-up so I questioned her about it. She started laughing and said she had been heading out the Walsh's door with Timmy and Rita earlier that day when Timmy told Rita to give her a bit of lipstick because "women should have a bit of lipstick on." She and Rita had been in stitches at him but she put a bit on anyway.
2. Being in the Walsh's house one day when Timmy and his eldest daughter, Mary, arrived back. Mary was a little annoyed at Timmy because he had just scratched out 'Tim Joe' in fresh cement up the road. When I suggested it didn't matter Mary said, "it's not like nobody will know who 'Tim Joe' is"!
That last memory is one meaning of the "concrete portal" reference but I also mean that he lives on through his descendants and the memories of the rest of us.
RIP Timmy, 14/01/1941-01/09/2015.)