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| Pops - circa 1990 |
I'm sharing this poem because in 5 days it will be 18 years since my father died and this was written for him - my first reader/listener. (It's taken from my collection
The Makings of You, published by the fantastic Peepal Tree Press in late 2010). Last week I felt a sudden urge to buy a whole bag of limes and I've been going through them fast. I rationalised it by telling myself I was forestalling any colds that may come, but today it suddenly struck me why; my internal clock was telling me to remember Pops - funny how the littlest things can bring one solace!
Half-a-lime
His pen moves as fast as
darkness scatters.
Three fleshy creases mark
his forehead
as he leans pensively
forward
like a question mark
filled with life.
The
cocks have crowed; in the streets
brooms
raise dust. I rise early
I want to be the first to
see him
smile, see his small,
white teeth
expose themselves without
inhibition
like nudists on a beach of
gums.
Pigeons
gather… the sun summons
its light. I head
outside.
I can see him before I see
him;
yesterday’s paper to his
left,
a pen in his right hand
and sheaves of paper
awaiting stains
The
dew rises like fleeting
possibilities
in the new heat.
He’s waiting. I like the
song he hums;
the tenor harmony of a
Jimmy Smith solo.
Silent, he passes his
clean mug to me.
We’ll talk between hot
sips of tea.
The
kettle boils; loaded
bubbles
of speech waiting to burst.
I make two cups: black, no
sugar
with half-a-lime squeezed
in each.
His mouth forms a vaginal
shape as he sips
the heat, the promise of a
new day.
Something
warm passes from father to son.
Silence
becomes an enduring memory.
And this week, I buy seven
perfect limes. One
for every new day. I will
slice them in two
each morning, squeeze one
half for me, and one
half into an empty cup.
For the memories.
what i'm reading/listening to
listening:
Miles Davis - Kind of Blue
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reading:
Mongo Beti
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