My father died yesterday
He had been unwell for some time, so it was no surprise. Indeed, in some ways I suspect there would have been relief in it for him. It was clear the time was coming, but two trips to Accident & Emergency — and a fall in between — all within the space of a few days…
On the desk in front of me I now have a list of all the agencies and people I need to talk to, a growing log of the practical steps undertaken. Having been mentally prepared for this day for a while (I thought it might come in 2024) it’s all too to easy to slip into ‘pragmatic mode’.
Ours was a complicated relationship. Indeed, because of a scarred childhood my relationship with both my parents was not straightforward. Although they — and those early experiences — made me what I am, I can hardly paint it any other way.
But rather than elaborate, in time-honoured fashion here are two poems I wrote relating to my father, one some time ago, the other after my mother died in 2023.
The Cut-out
I try and imagine the irregular space he will leave,
the awkwardness of it. Will it have boundaries,
soft-boiled edges prone to compromise if you’re careless,
like stranger-bumping in a Tesco’s chiller aisle?
Stolen from unconcerned history and devoid of value,
I could take this abstract replica in all its coarse dimensions
and prop it tottering where he stood
to see if he’s still at home in 'The Oak', the bookmakers,
the empty chair in the lethargic hospital waiting room.
It would be a validation of sorts.
I try and imagine the untrammelled space I will leave,
fluid and deep-sea’d, nebulous and shape-shifting.
Yet perhaps that’s not how others remember us
preferring to recall the solid and tangible
something to be rebuked, or stroked, or prodded, or loved.
If you could take this insubstantial past-promise of me,
might you explore the sense of those rare few, to see
if contact with my roughly chiselled words
and hand-sewn pin-bled phrases touched them?
It could be a validation of sorts.‘The Cut-out’ is from my 2019 collection First-time Visions of Earth from Space.
The following poem will be published during 2025.
If we were Ancient Egyptians
your decision might carry more import:
pine, rose, cherry
— or some heavyweight wood
long since made scarce by those
seeking luxurious passage
to the next life.
As it is
you baulk at the cost of the cremation
never mind the casket,
shy away from procession
and the empty words of a celebrant
who would cram the night before
as if sitting an exam
whose outcome was in doubt.
Not that there would be much to say
- and to an audience of one at that.
“Cheap and cheerful”
doesn’t cover it.
If there is guilt
(not simply for your frugality
but much more besides)
you accept the burden, find yourself
further disquieted by the realisation
that whatever you decide
could be a way-marker for your own falling
into Osiris’ open arms.
Just read and re-read these two poems - delicate and powerful. It is so hard (and necessary) to write with such personal truth about grief, this strange and complex uber-experience. And you're still only 9 or 10 days beyond your father's death, which is such a mega event, even when expected. Congratulations on both poems with their honesty and tenderness, and your own compassion....
Ian I hope you have had an adequate number of comments. I have read and reread them both over two days - quietly and aloud. It was a privilege to see them. I wish you well in your thoughts.
Your explanation at the start deals with the pragmatic and leaves the feelings and memories to the side. Then the writer/poet takes over.
The Cut-out. Your use of words — irregular space —awkwardness — Tesco’s chiller aisle explains feelings and emotions so well.
Your later one — ‘as it is’ — speaks of the now with hints of the past. You, for me, encapsulate your thoughts (maybe). And those ‘empty words of the celebrant’ speaks loudly.
That’s why we write — is it not?