Indieoma

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