Three Poems

From the Land of the Living In the box, amongst the sky and navy blue of a Dublin jersey, the fire-engine red of a Liverpool scarf scented with teen spirit, they placed your mobile phone before the lid was screwed down. Your brother, ten now, still texts you the scores on a Saturday. The Man Who Refused I He would get up for breakfast, queue for bread, cheese, orange juice and tablets, return to his room. Make his bed, settle to a crossword clue, read the world news, shake his head. He’d shower and shave, take time over emollients and hair gel, brush his teeth carefully and floss in between. II They told him he’d have to move home. His place was listed for others in need. His girlfriend had bagged all his clothes for charity, given books to friends, tidied their photographs into neat blue albums. Then he recognised the street sign, a struck-through inverted ‘U.’ You’re the most real, facing the end. III He asked his only son to dig the family plot and make a snug, straight-edged job of it. Clear off the marble chippings, cleave the cap slab and pick down to just above the small bones of first failings. Avoiding his eyes, the son nodded, unused to this sort of undertaking. IV They sat on straight-backed Georgian chairs in dry dust-ridden sunlight, to hear his words read out loud. I, being of sound and settling mind do give, bequeath and appoint nothing. The dark-haired son sighed, picking dirt from under his fingernails. The girlfriend suppressed a dry smirk. Six Stages of Grief The funeral was over, the hole in-filled. You’d served tea for the group of guests; but you sought erasure from the spirit’s will. Accusing popper vests and ‘gros seemed shrill; he burned them and the photos, at your request. The funeral was over, the hole in-filled. If you’d given up parties; any form of fun until she’d had grown up so far … who could guess that you sought erasure from the spirit’s will. Christmas was too soon, too pointless, too chill, to notice colour inside numbness, unrest. The funeral was over, the hole in-filled. You re-found your rudder, worked on skills like knitting; sewing, always lining a nest; still you sought erasure from the spirit’s will. Now, recovered black and white negatives distil a youthful couple, a baby: how long you suppressed them: the funeral is over, the hole in-filled; erasure sought from the spirit’s will. Barbara Smith lives in County Louth, Ireland dividing her time between raising six children, writing, and teaching Creative Writing. In 2007, her debut poetry collection Kairos was published by Doghouse Books. She was awarded an MA in Creative Writing from Queen’s University, Belfast in 2008. Barbara was a prize winner at the Wigtown Poetry Competition 2009, Scotland’s biggest poetry prize and is the current recipient of the Annie Deeny Memorial Prize, Ireland. Links to the other Death and Mourning posts: <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/mike-watson-intro-death-and-mourning-2', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="Introduction">Mike: Introduction</a> <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/farryl-violet-the-undead', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="Violet the Undead">Farryl: Violet the Undead</a> <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/ricrawlins-i-wanna-be-eaten-by-jaws', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="I Wanna Be Eaten By Jaws">Ric: I Wanna Be Eaten By Jaws</a> <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/nuala-n-chonch-ir-mourning-your-own', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="Mourning Your Own">Nuala: Mourning Your Own</a> <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/guest-writer-rattenkopf-entkomt', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="Rattenkopf Entkommt">Martin: Rattenkopf Entkommt</a> <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/seanbwparker-death-and-mourning', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="Death and Mourning">Sean: Death and Mourning</a> <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/karim-julien-because-michael-tole-me-so', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="Because Michael Told Me So">Karim: Because Michael Told Me So</a> 2009-04-18T15:44:11-04:00 false false 683

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From the Land of the Living In the box, amongst the sky and navy blue of a Dublin jersey, the fire-engine red of a Liverpool scarf scented with teen spirit, they placed your mobile phone before the lid was screwed down. Your brother, ten now, still texts you the scores on a Saturday. The Man Who Refused I He would get up for breakfast, queue for bread, cheese, orange juice and tablets, return to his room. Make his bed, settle to a crossword clue, read the world news, shake his head. He’d shower and shave, take time over emollients and hair gel, brush his teeth carefully and floss in between. II They told him he’d have to move home. His place was listed for others in need. His girlfriend had bagged all his clothes for charity, given books to friends, tidied their photographs into neat blue albums. Then he recognised the street sign, a struck-through inverted ‘U.’ You’re the most real, facing the end. III He asked his only son to dig the family plot and make a snug, straight-edged job of it. Clear off the marble chippings, cleave the cap slab and pick down to just above the small bones of first failings. Avoiding his eyes, the son nodded, unused to this sort of undertaking. IV They sat on straight-backed Georgian chairs in dry dust-ridden sunlight, to hear his words read out loud. I, being of sound and settling mind do give, bequeath and appoint nothing. The dark-haired son sighed, picking dirt from under his fingernails. The girlfriend suppressed a dry smirk. Six Stages of Grief The funeral was over, the hole in-filled. You’d served tea for the group of guests; but you sought erasure from the spirit’s will. Accusing popper vests and ‘gros seemed shrill; he burned them and the photos, at your request. The funeral was over, the hole in-filled. If you’d given up parties; any form of fun until she’d had grown up so far … who could guess that you sought erasure from the spirit’s will. Christmas was too soon, too pointless, too chill, to notice colour inside numbness, unrest. The funeral was over, the hole in-filled. You re-found your rudder, worked on skills like knitting; sewing, always lining a nest; still you sought erasure from the spirit’s will. Now, recovered black and white negatives distil a youthful couple, a baby: how long you suppressed them: the funeral is over, the hole in-filled; erasure sought from the spirit’s will. Barbara Smith lives in County Louth, Ireland dividing her time between raising six children, writing, and teaching Creative Writing. In 2007, her debut poetry collection Kairos was published by Doghouse Books. She was awarded an MA in Creative Writing from Queen’s University, Belfast in 2008. Barbara was a prize winner at the Wigtown Poetry Competition 2009, Scotland’s biggest poetry prize and is the current recipient of the Annie Deeny Memorial Prize, Ireland. Links to the other Death and Mourning posts: Mike: Introduction Farryl: Violet the Undead Ric: I Wanna Be Eaten By Jaws Nuala: Mourning Your Own Martin: Rattenkopf Entkommt Sean: Death and Mourning Karim: Because Michael Told Me So

*From the Land of the Living* In the box, amongst the sky and navy blue of a Dublin jersey, the fire-engine red of a Liverpool scarf scented with teen spirit, they placed your mobile phone before the lid was screwed down. Your brother, ten now, still texts you the scores on a Saturday. *The Man Who Refused* I He would get up for breakfast, queue for bread, cheese, orange juice and tablets, return to his room. Make his bed, settle to a crossword clue, read the world news, shake his head. He’d shower and shave, take time over emollients and hair gel, brush his teeth carefully and floss in between. II They told him he’d have to move home. His place was listed for others in need. His girlfriend had bagged all his clothes for charity, given books to friends, tidied their photographs into neat blue albums. Then he recognised the street sign, a struck-through inverted ‘U.’ You’re the most real, facing the end. III He asked his only son to dig the family plot and make a snug, straight-edged job of it. Clear off the marble chippings, cleave the cap slab and pick down to just above the small bones of first failings. Avoiding his eyes, the son nodded, unused to this sort of undertaking. IV They sat on straight-backed Georgian chairs in dry dust-ridden sunlight, to hear his words read out loud. I, being of sound and settling mind do give, bequeath and appoint nothing. The dark-haired son sighed, picking dirt from under his fingernails. The girlfriend suppressed a dry smirk. *Six Stages of Grief* The funeral was over, the hole in-filled. You’d served tea for the group of guests; but you sought erasure from the spirit’s will. Accusing popper vests and ‘gros seemed shrill; he burned them and the photos, at your request. The funeral was over, the hole in-filled. If you’d given up parties; any form of fun until she’d had grown up so far … who could guess that you sought erasure from the spirit’s will. Christmas was too soon, too pointless, too chill, to notice colour inside numbness, unrest. The funeral was over, the hole in-filled. You re-found your rudder, worked on skills like knitting; sewing, always lining a nest; still you sought erasure from the spirit’s will. Now, recovered black and white negatives distil a youthful couple, a baby: how long you suppressed them: the funeral is over, the hole in-filled; erasure sought from the spirit’s will. Barbara Smith lives in County Louth, Ireland dividing her time between raising six children, writing, and teaching Creative Writing. In 2007, her debut poetry collection Kairos was published by Doghouse Books. She was awarded an MA in Creative Writing from Queen’s University, Belfast in 2008. Barbara was a prize winner at the Wigtown Poetry Competition 2009, Scotland’s biggest poetry prize and is the current recipient of the Annie Deeny Memorial Prize, Ireland. Links to the other Death and Mourning posts: "Mike: Introduction(Introduction)":/commentaries/mike-watson-intro-death-and-mourning-2 "Farryl: Violet the Undead(Violet the Undead)":/commentaries/farryl-violet-the-undead "Ric: I Wanna Be Eaten By Jaws(I Wanna Be Eaten By Jaws)":/commentaries/ricrawlins-i-wanna-be-eaten-by-jaws "Nuala: Mourning Your Own(Mourning Your Own)":/commentaries/nuala-n-chonch-ir-mourning-your-own "Martin: Rattenkopf Entkommt(Rattenkopf Entkommt)":/commentaries/guest-writer-rattenkopf-entkomt "Sean: Death and Mourning(Death and Mourning)":/commentaries/seanbwparker-death-and-mourning "Karim: Because Michael Told Me So(Because Michael Told Me So)":/commentaries/karim-julien-because-michael-tole-me-so

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Three Poems false

2009-04-22T08:16:08-04:00

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