your father and I have decided
we don’t believe there’s anything
after death
you don’t
go
anywhere
there are no beautiful fields
or singing angels
there’s nothing
you just stop
given over two years ago
with no room for argument
this was a pronouncement
typical of my parents
because the opposite
could be said
to be equally true
your father and I
believe absolutely
in life after death
we are looking forward
to meeting in a beautiful field
with singing angels
who will pluck their lyres
or harps
for us
there is an eternity
heaven exists
and you live forever
the lies are mere contingency
the truth is out of reach
the lies are mere contingency
because the truth is out of reach
like trying to open a letter
when half is in the mirror
you follow the trail with your eyes
while birds eat the remaining crumbs
the picture changes
the page turns
the two are not connected
you know what you said about the unexpected
expect it
oma was always unusual
my heart has streamers on it
so we may see it
drop
down a deep black hole
so that between the fiction
and fact
falls
delay
anton chekhov knew
exactly who
my mother was
a seagull
landed
on her head
in the front seat
of the punt
screaming
on the avon
what is left unsaid is this
better to stamp your golden curls
lie with sticks
the wrong end of the book
what did they see
the dykes at the fish and chip shop
what did they say
that made her think
they wanted to pick her up
more breast
while I’m leaning over
birds
she hated birds
soar
in a reflected sky
you can write about us
when we’re both dead
a story
half-buried in heavy sand
it has escaped the ravages
of truth
it has escaped exposure
to the light of secrets
that are told at parties
it has escaped
wrapped in dresses
small and simple
small and simple
like a twin
gives each
a double gravity
like a thing which
has been wrapped
in dresses in layers
for centuries
and unlike a thing
that has been handled regularly
it is not worn smooth
it is sharp
it catches
a claw
a talon
on the silk and lace
of every piece of fabric
they must have known
their lives would be loud
for the rocks
in its course
but for that
exceptional
monika
she said she got fat
on school dinners
in the fifties
she said
stop writing poetry
in your head
look at the road
she also said
wait till your father
gets home
how do you feel
I don’t feel well
why not
I don’t know
where is the pain
I don’t know
silence an ocean
secrecy a din
night suddenly falls
the choir roars sleeps
by turns
the ship of the world
spins and fires
the land offends
because it floats not
noise drowns
in music
look at that
the last drops of the mixture
you shake the bottle pink
unscrew the lid white
plastic
you take out the wand
you put your lips together
blow
a bubble pops
without a sound
it would be right
and wrong
to say
she passed away
she didn’t pass
she would not pass
and if anyone had been there
to remind her she was passing
she’d have said
no I’m not
each small perversion of the facts
doesn’t add up to one big lie
it speaks
a frail truth
how fragile
is the human heart
a model of negativity
a practical fiction
the road ends in darkness
as if darkness were only
a colour
I’m barking at shadows at the gate
bright sun
as if everywhere
a sign
angels
a waterspout
a flood
a black beetle
a breakdown
a slow blink
the night of the night
a week hard with happening
each day
a child
a light
each day
tauter
this morning a slanting blade
and movement at the gate
the shape of it under the skin
of these events
a stranger outside
or one of us who has left
who has just left
who hesitates at the gate
no room in a world with too much sense
to account for any life
so what was mum’s about
dad and us
but put her in a theatre or a school
and she was shockingly
capable
she only had to set foot on a playground
to organise some small child
who wouldn’t quake but connect
as if mum had access
to a special switchboard
and she only had to step
into a classroom
to calculate its average
intelligence
as well as range
and modes
who the bright kids
and where the slow ones were
and where the trouble-makers
to each she would give
her full attention
which is exactly what she did
at any party
even family gatherings
it was quite wearing
for friends to pass her IQ test
but she never had to disarm a guest
grab the knife
kick him in the balls
at home
as she had at work
shockingly capable
discriminating
in the application
of force
she hated housework
it was lonely
loved food and wine
and company
she pulled party food
platters of petits-fours
pâté and crackers
olives and cheeses
artichoke hearts
dolmades
and whole meals together
out of the best ingredients
the credo of the good
hostess
true until two weeks ago
I like a full cupboard
her mother put her off poetry
because granny
was the last victorian
insisted on recitation
by heart and banned comics
and grandpa never spared
the rod
first year college
he asked me if I was
a fag
I misunderstood
mum rebelled and all her life
put herself against
if not above
convention
probably why kids made
the connection
one look at dad
a dirty mick in a duffelcoat
wearing a goatee
was enough for her parents
then one look at dad
under the clock
at charing cross station
was enough
for mum
they didn’t live to enjoy a
happy old age together
but when they both had something to do
they were brilliant
they were brilliant at living
that’s not long
she told the specialist
when given only months
but you have surprised us
he said
so far
so
who can say
and once said
who can be sure
months passed
and on wednesday night
within the standard length
of a play
two to
two and a half hours
she not so much left us
as went without leaving
but she did do one last
extraordinary thing
as if to acknowledge us
but also and equally possibly
to graciously acknowledge
a grateful audience
to say
this is
all I am
she lowered her eyelids
raised them
a small drop
of moisture
ran from her eye
I didn’t see it
but it was there
a tear brought out
by the quietest time and also
the greatest noise in the world
applause
mum wasn’t supposed to die
right now or
at
all
and she was expected to fight
to the end
she slipped away
as if she’d secretly rehearsed
lying at night
in the hospital bed in her room
she called her
coffin
the terrible years are gone
and the years
we laughed more
than we could have believed
possible
I only have to look at you
to know where they are gone
they flit like shadows
on your face
they move like breath
they lift like mist
drop like rain
they pool in your eyes
they hide in pockets
look away
you will
miss them
when they’re
there
lying in long grass
the simple sky above
a still lake
every feature of the landscape
perfectly reflected
feeling the earth turn
and the way
time folds one
thing against the other
like the sky and the lake
[for my mother
Ianthe Victoria Taylor
29/1/1939 – 15/2/2012
the service
held at Kaukapakapa Church
21/2/2012]
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