DAD DAY by David Erdos - Poem 7 from AT THE GATES
While rarely talked about now, it is safe to say
He still lingers: the good-looking man my looks fail at
Who left me all of those lost years ago. For today,
In 1994 Tommy slipped from this earthly stream
To far water, with only an empty bath to receive him,
As a boat on the Styx he’d cargoed – away from
The world he fought through, as the last years
Of his life proved a challenge; losing his job, home
And partner to suddenly reappear at my door.
I had just started to work at that time, getting
My first professional jobs as an actor and to see
His face and need naked on that street in Liverpool
Then hurts me more than I can express thinking of it
Now, writing here, as I do, as if laying my Dad in verse
Might insult him. My only hope is that expansion through
The limits language sets might convey the closeness
I feel to that still bright, long dimmed person. Particularly
As my grief for my mother eclipses all, and of course
She also died on this day, but only nine years ago.
So how do we separate such surrenders? As well as
Celebrate the strength of the lives I remember in times
Despite hardship that were so much better than this.
And where the kiss I bestowed on my Dad after our last
Conversation tastes bittersweet, as we argued. And yet
His continued memory contains bliss. For he was a safe
Haven, my Dad. But not in a clichéd way. More in calmness.
Good with his hands; artist, builder, constructor of shelves,
Architect, he had a wide smile for all and an open
And full trusting nature. Yet as I was typing this I was straining
Not to capture the face or stocky shape I reflect, but to hear
His lost voice, with which he was represented so clearly.
It had a calming sound. No edge to it. Some voices are knives.
His carved ease. Late on Friday nights we would talk long
Before something bad happened. Watching an arty film,
Eating onions as if they were forest fruit with strong cheese.
In that Hungarian way, though he kept his past sealed
And hidden for decades, as he and Peter, my Uncle
Lost their father to Nazis, while sitting on my Grandmother
So that collaborators partial mercy was stirred.
Unnaturally, this was never truly discussed. And at the age
Of Eighteen, Tommy travelled, all the way towards England
Which despite the Suez year held the word that we know
As hope- which rarely lasts. Hope just flickers. But perhaps
In that flicker rests the momentary peace we all seek. And so
My Dad walked around and gained a Cabbie’s former knowledge
Of London. With his own heart as Sat-nav, he found both purpose
And strength in those weeks - to become part of the aspirant
Middle class, at whose low end he soon laboured, along with
My mother, his neighbour, when he settled at last in the streets
Of suburban Kenton, no less, when joined by my Uncle and Aunt
And Grandmother. And so, began the sad story of my parents
Slow detach and divorce, which left them both stranded in turn,
If on divergent islands. My Mother’s well fought for, my father’s
Relinquished as if its rivers were stalled at their source. Hope
Grasped his poor heart too hard, as the smoke he enjoyed
Masked and misted, and that empty bath boat conveyed him
Upon that unknown sea to death’s shore. A journey he started
Today. Not that he ever sailed. He swam grandly. And butterfly
Stroke: Man as Angel, slicing that sea into spirit as the thrashing
Foam became wings. On which he rides and rises with still,
After waiting eighteen years for my Mother. I like to think
That they sail now together, not that we can on earth
Know such things. But it was across the last twenty-four
Hours both died. And so, I mark each day as it happens.
As I do their births. It’s like talking to those beyond photographs.
My dear Dad, long dead but alive I hope in the clamour
Of my still tapping need to contain him and to kiss them both
Through grief’s mask. So many have died. And there are so many
Now who will know this. Even if you do not hear this poem
Then I ask that you at least recognise that those you love
And have lost remain forever locked deep within you.
Just turn the key to release them. For they master the escape
We all search for and they are watching you now
Through your eyes.
David Erdos
February 11th 2021
 |
David Erdos |
Comments
Post a Comment