DAD DAY by David Erdos - Poem 7 from AT THE GATES

DAD DAY

 

 

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

For more poems from David Erdos visit The Corona Diaries collection 

David Erdos is an actor, writer, director with over 300 professional credits. He is a published poet, playwright, essayist and illustrator. He has lectured on all disciplines in theatre and film for leading performing arts colleges, schools and universities around the world. His books include EASY VERSES FOR DIFFICULT TIMES, THE SCAR ON THE CLOUD, OIL ON SILVER, NEWS FROM MARS, CHANGING PLACES WITH LIGHT (penniless press) and BYZANTIUM with the photographer Max Reeves. He is a contributing editor for The International Times and maker of documentaries all over the world. David’s work has been acclaimed by many leading figures including Harold Pinter, Heathcote Williams, Alan Moore, Andrew Kotting, Chris Petit and Iain Sinclair in whose recent book THE LAST LONDON, David features. He can be reached at David.erdos@sky.com.

David Erdos

©    David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.