Generations
I remember a photograph
on a dust jacket of Samuel Becket’s
biography, icy blue eyes looking
into the ongoing distance
This photograph of my father
looking beyond the camera
into a far distance, his patience wearing thin
Like his silver grey hair, reminds me
His life now separated from mine
by oceans, he stares as though
reading my mind. He sees his
self written in a past that is also
my future. How we haunt each other
his broken memory and disappointed
dreams, my fear of the endlessness
of the tomorrow's yet to come
But still he persists in the life he has made
refusing to despair, wanting to return.
As Becket has it, his eyes say, I can't go on,
yet we go on, into the future foretold
To an unnamed granddaughter after a water birth
Water welcomes you, slipping from one watery
Home to another, rising to breathe the air, your form
Turns in the depths aqueous, a Mermaids tale
Divides as you seek to expel waters breath
Crest the wave, breathe air, breaking the surface
Waiting until your name is called for all to hear
But now as yet unnamed you bring delight
We smile and smile through tears
Hold you gently and pray
For happiness, for you and for ourselves
Our grandchild youngest
Now of four and all three … brothers
And cousins, seven of those, all loving
Proud as you the eighth join the family
Our name doesn't matter as much
As yours, after all Smith isn't a name
To mourn, but ... let’s hope they
Choose yours soon a name to speak of ...
Celebrate … your beauty, our pride
Our hopes ... for your glorious bright future.
What’s in a name? And do you care yet
Although in time you will, such responsibility
For parents to capture the infinite riches of possibility
Stored in the potential of your life ahead
The firmness of your grip suggests you will
Be strong as you grow, the smile in your enquiring eyes
Suggest that you will be seeker after truth’s promise
So you should be named for a life rich in possibilities.
We smooth the path ahead by singing the praise
Of Tuesdays child so full of grace and joy.
A Poem for Manny
Emmanuel, a gift, from
One we call God, these tears
These breaths, these tiny fists
Clenched in rage and triumph
Determined to fulfill the hope
To be the promise, raised
In a holy family
August, Prince
Of Seasons, crowning triumph
Of the year, before harvest
Corn waves golden in summer suns
This Caesar of the years days
Promising legions yet to come
A brave army stretching to
Horizons yet to be embraced
A year at a time
Valentine, the Saint
Of loves' promise rises, suckles
Smiles, offers both the promise and reality
Of love, warming rooms with laughter
Signing his name with flourishes ......
From one who thinks you are wonderful
Aubade for the Shortest Day
(After the painting Cimitiere en Provence byFrederic Montenard)
As the year turns the days lessening is done
And the shortest day draws slowly toward its end
Now the year grows steadily and we begin to taste
Spring even though the winter snows have not yet
Thawed but the signs of new life begin to emerge
These same signs in the lives of humankind the tell-
Tale signs of age, the greying, the slowing, without
The renewing of life, for people as winter follows
Autumn there is no spring ahead just the steady
Decay as life begins its final descent to earth
Some approach this time with settled optimism
Some with fear and anxious dreams of darkness
For others there is a raging against the dying
Of the light accompanied by the loss of senses
Reason that had served so well the dis-embodied
Voice of one who has become a stranger to himself
I take my chance with the darkness, launching
Myself into the coming night as though unafraid
Cursing the darkness, raising a glass in defiance
Toasting the gods who claim their victories
Before lying down to sleep through the years
That lie ahead, the rhythm of this eternal sleep
Will last for far more lifetimes than have been lived
And there will be no spring to warm the earth
No re-current pulse of life awakening the sleeper
Of the age, no return of summer, no warmth
To make the grave a less solemn cold bed
Only memories, only the name by which I
Was known, sieved through the memories
Of those who knew me until finally lost
And in a graveyard some future traveller
Might pause by the dried flowers on the dust
Covered stone and read my name and ask
Who was this man and what became of his
Hopes and dreams, his words and songs
Now all lost, all gone and pause to reflect
That his own final chapter has just begun
© Geoff Smith
Genoa
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
I remember a photograph
on a dust jacket of Samuel Becket’s
biography, icy blue eyes looking
into the ongoing distance
This photograph of my father
looking beyond the camera
into a far distance, his patience wearing thin
Like his silver grey hair, reminds me
His life now separated from mine
by oceans, he stares as though
reading my mind. He sees his
self written in a past that is also
my future. How we haunt each other
his broken memory and disappointed
dreams, my fear of the endlessness
of the tomorrow's yet to come
But still he persists in the life he has made
refusing to despair, wanting to return.
As Becket has it, his eyes say, I can't go on,
yet we go on, into the future foretold
To an unnamed granddaughter after a water birth
Water welcomes you, slipping from one watery
Home to another, rising to breathe the air, your form
Turns in the depths aqueous, a Mermaids tale
Divides as you seek to expel waters breath
Crest the wave, breathe air, breaking the surface
Waiting until your name is called for all to hear
But now as yet unnamed you bring delight
We smile and smile through tears
Hold you gently and pray
For happiness, for you and for ourselves
Our grandchild youngest
Now of four and all three … brothers
And cousins, seven of those, all loving
Proud as you the eighth join the family
Our name doesn't matter as much
As yours, after all Smith isn't a name
To mourn, but ... let’s hope they
Choose yours soon a name to speak of ...
Celebrate … your beauty, our pride
Our hopes ... for your glorious bright future.
What’s in a name? And do you care yet
Although in time you will, such responsibility
For parents to capture the infinite riches of possibility
Stored in the potential of your life ahead
The firmness of your grip suggests you will
Be strong as you grow, the smile in your enquiring eyes
Suggest that you will be seeker after truth’s promise
So you should be named for a life rich in possibilities.
We smooth the path ahead by singing the praise
Of Tuesdays child so full of grace and joy.
A Poem for Manny
Emmanuel, a gift, from
One we call God, these tears
These breaths, these tiny fists
Clenched in rage and triumph
Determined to fulfill the hope
To be the promise, raised
In a holy family
August, Prince
Of Seasons, crowning triumph
Of the year, before harvest
Corn waves golden in summer suns
This Caesar of the years days
Promising legions yet to come
A brave army stretching to
Horizons yet to be embraced
A year at a time
Valentine, the Saint
Of loves' promise rises, suckles
Smiles, offers both the promise and reality
Of love, warming rooms with laughter
Signing his name with flourishes ......
From one who thinks you are wonderful
Aubade for the Shortest Day
(After the painting Cimitiere en Provence byFrederic Montenard)
As the year turns the days lessening is done
And the shortest day draws slowly toward its end
Now the year grows steadily and we begin to taste
Spring even though the winter snows have not yet
Thawed but the signs of new life begin to emerge
These same signs in the lives of humankind the tell-
Tale signs of age, the greying, the slowing, without
The renewing of life, for people as winter follows
Autumn there is no spring ahead just the steady
Decay as life begins its final descent to earth
Some approach this time with settled optimism
Some with fear and anxious dreams of darkness
For others there is a raging against the dying
Of the light accompanied by the loss of senses
Reason that had served so well the dis-embodied
Voice of one who has become a stranger to himself
I take my chance with the darkness, launching
Myself into the coming night as though unafraid
Cursing the darkness, raising a glass in defiance
Toasting the gods who claim their victories
Before lying down to sleep through the years
That lie ahead, the rhythm of this eternal sleep
Will last for far more lifetimes than have been lived
And there will be no spring to warm the earth
No re-current pulse of life awakening the sleeper
Of the age, no return of summer, no warmth
To make the grave a less solemn cold bed
Only memories, only the name by which I
Was known, sieved through the memories
Of those who knew me until finally lost
And in a graveyard some future traveller
Might pause by the dried flowers on the dust
Covered stone and read my name and ask
Who was this man and what became of his
Hopes and dreams, his words and songs
Now all lost, all gone and pause to reflect
That his own final chapter has just begun
© Geoff Smith
Genoa
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
