Words for each poem: My Father’s Voice (0:00) Through the thin wall of memory, I hear my father’s voice, English, resonant, though to call him English was to insult this Scott, The best English is spoken in Edinburgh, Only the accursed Sassenachs take sugar with their porridge, I, his eldest child, still take my porridge with a grain of salt. A Smoldering Wick (Isaiah 42:3) (0:27) Mouth slightly open she lies, almost swallowed by white sheets and pillows, reduced to two small eyes looking towards the past through giant spectacles, It seems a pity to disturb her peace; life didn’t grant much rest to her, nor me; my life is extra busy now she’s slow, I bend to kiss her wrinkled cheek and smooth her hair back, “hello mother mine”, she turns, smiling, I hold her hand trying to think of news, “Bronwyn dropped in last night, the garden’s fine”, she smiles, ascents, and falls asleep again, I too look back, I see her striding along rough bushy tracks, picnicking, tending her garden, while she dreams on of even earlier days, I long to tell her all she’s meant to me, to voice the words I’ve found impossible to say, She wakes and smiles again to find me there, I sit there silently, then breathe the words: “I love you mother dear”, Out of their haze her two blue eyes blaze out with love and mirth; “So you damn well better”, she whispers. AKD 1900-1988 (1:57) Now all the gathered radiance of her life is scattered for the wind of heaven to blow about the earth, where He wills at His pace, be it fast or slow, We saw it in the sweetness of her smile, her unrelenting vigor and support of us in living out her dreams, her wisdom and her folly, all she sought, We saw it in her planned obedience to what she knew to be God’s holy law, We saw it in her look of innocence when, struggling to the end, she looked and saw only the good in us, Then she was whole, though frail, the strength she’d had become a hole through which God’s grace was poured. My Mother’s Grit (2:53) Born on the first of March 1900 she narrowly escaped the fate of Frederick in the Pirates of Penzance; was barely three when her short-sightedness made it mandatory for her to become a spectacle rather than a beauty, Four brothers taught her to be tough, with stiff upper lip she survived boarding school, bookkeeping, and staying single till she was 30, Married, she bore four children, left them for ten long months to travel in 1939 to England for the sake of her husband’s work, After the war, as her husband languished in a psychiatric hospital, a shame kept hidden from all but the closest friends, she literally kept the home’s fires burning, with hand cut wood, Showed the tension only occasionally, survived on a dwindling income by restricting her own outings, growing vegetables and keeping chickens, She encouraged our creativity in many ways, sharing her love and knowledge of native plants, taking us on joyous picknick outings, filling wet winter days with a variety of crafty activities, making presents for each other and friends, polishing the silver, setting us to write to pen friends, When her husband died, she remained in the family home, tending her garden and welcoming her friends and family to share her joy in its living beauty for another fifteen years, She saw her children marry, bear her grandchildren, abandoned her home after 50 years only when my daughter was killed, Her cancer recurred, the only sign of the grief she would never reveal in tears, The grit embedded in her life, transmuted into mother of pearl. (Note: the reference to the Pirates of Penzance is due to one of the characters in that play, Frederick, having been born on the 29th of February and a host of comic issues he faces due to technically only receiving a birthday once every four years.) The Reluctant Housewife (The Chef’s Dilemma) (4:58) I hated cooking dinner, day after weary day, And when the children came from school, I thought it time to play, I’d cook them scones and rock cakes, and serve them cups of tea, But when it came to dinner time my mind was all at sea, The menu had strict limits, there had to be some meat, Cooked ‘til it simply fell apart, and took no time to eat, And this was cooked in gravy, a thin one known as jus, Which consisted of meat juices mixed with fat and water too, I was excellent at burning, both meat and veggies too, I might have managed better if I’d tried a simple stew, There had to be potatoes, boiled, drained and shaken too, So they would be all floury and soak up lots of jus, And jus was all important, I’ve been in lots of strife, The meals I cooked forgetting jus have shortened my sweet life, And the meat was always beefsteak, because that was what he knew, And although he was Australian in his speech and thinking too, There were certain things, he was quite sure, that must be the way he knew, So, I don’t cook Australian, nor do I cordon bleu, In fact, I hate Bose cooking, I’d rather bread and jam, With cheese to give me protein or a great big slice of ham, So, bear with me if I go out to eat at KFC, Though I’d rather go out to Sizzlers or eat Chinese for my tea, And when I reach the promised land, I’ll employ a cook each day, So I can sit and write rude verse, and the children can still play. (Note: its not fully clear to me after talking with gran and doing some research whether the gravy she mentions is a Dutch thing called something like 'shoe' and pronounced as such, or if its just a version of the French word and meat gravy 'Jus'. I opted for the latter in my transcription as I figured it would not cause as much confusion.) His Old Red Scarf (6:53) His old red scarf still hangs on the door handle, ragged at the edges from overuse, it should be discarded; but I leave it, a reminder, Dark red, it speaks of his love, how he splattered blood for me, sticking with a job where he was denigrated, managing our finance, making detailed lists for holidays to cope with my disorganisation, after Domonic was born, doing the grocery shopping for me, Faithfully staying the course through my severe depression though he too wanted to die, When we married, he was not interested in my knitting, no thanks, he didn’t want a jumper, until I was pregnant and started on baby clothes, then he wanted a jumper; the scarf came later, In bed he was cold around the neck, I knitted an old familiar pattern: two plain, two pearl, with an odd stich to make a rib, He loved it, always wore it with his dressing gown, it has a crinkly, cobbled edge, where, having no red left, I mended it with black. His Hands (8:13) His hands are warm, comforting, dry humoured, still unmarked, Until you look inside to see the knots formed by years of clenching them in frustration. Cleaning Windows (8:31) He says, “the windows of the bungalow need cleaning”, “Why bother?” I think, no one looks through them, it’s only used for storage, both our girls dump things, Why clean windows when the floor is sinking, the ceiling is parting from the walls so dirt drops down upon bed and wall where rain has found an entry? Why indeed? But I find myself washing walls, tidying the place, He stands there coughing, not up to helping but appreciative, I remember when he tiled the floor for his mother, it took days of painstaking planning; the tiles have not shifted in thirty-five years, Now he feels as decrepit as the rest of the bungalow, wonders if perhaps I might be prepared to throw him on the dust heap, And I, would I rip that whole thing up and lose that work of love? So, I take a cloth and clean windows until they sparkle and I can see the delight in his reflection. Domonic (9:40) Fair head hallowed by the sun, he sits atop the steps, watching the passing cars and passers-by, He does not strive to do, to overcome, accomplish, or to claim his share of fame, He’s content to be, Isn’t he wise, we with our open eyes miss half the things he sees, We in our busyness, miss the calm rest he knows. For Rachel, the Carer (10:11) Her mind goes double time, half on her cooking, half listening for her husband, Was that bump she heard him falling, again? Or just knocking into a door, She listens to her daughter, excitedly telling her about her morning with Gran, “we read Dr. Suess, one fish, two fish, and I swept up the leaves fallen on the carpet, then I dusted upstairs while Gran read Lily Quench, and I got the kettle out, filled it with water, checked that it works, I put out biscuits, Suddenly a noise, she turns off the stove, rushes to the bedroom to investigate, her man has decided he needs a rest, she settles him and returns to her cooking, So often he has fallen, the loss of power on his left has left him unbalanced, his foot dragging, he readily trips, Palliative care relieves her briefly, but he has no awareness of danger, no impulse control, always full of ideas he has no ability to achieve, He depends on her for everything, she’s exhausted, wonders, can she keep going? Her patience wears thin, but she stretches it further, cherishes him through all those vicissitudes. David, My Son (11:41) Tall and slender he moves with quiet grace, absorbed in work, his wife, his child to be, Caring and capable he serves his God, classifying plants, preserving native flora for future generations, Loving and steadfast, he has endeared himself, become one of us, revealed himself to be a gentle-man.
Words for each poem:
My Father’s Voice (0:00)
Through the thin wall of memory, I hear my father’s voice,
English, resonant, though to call him English was to insult this Scott,
The best English is spoken in Edinburgh,
Only the accursed Sassenachs take sugar with their porridge,
I, his eldest child, still take my porridge with a grain of salt.
A Smoldering Wick (Isaiah 42:3) (0:27)
Mouth slightly open she lies, almost swallowed by white sheets and pillows, reduced to two small eyes looking towards the past through giant spectacles,
It seems a pity to disturb her peace; life didn’t grant much rest to her, nor me; my life is extra busy now she’s slow,
I bend to kiss her wrinkled cheek and smooth her hair back, “hello mother mine”, she turns, smiling, I hold her hand trying to think of news, “Bronwyn dropped in last night, the garden’s fine”, she smiles, ascents, and falls asleep again,
I too look back, I see her striding along rough bushy tracks, picnicking, tending her garden, while she dreams on of even earlier days,
I long to tell her all she’s meant to me, to voice the words I’ve found impossible to say,
She wakes and smiles again to find me there,
I sit there silently, then breathe the words: “I love you mother dear”,
Out of their haze her two blue eyes blaze out with love and mirth;
“So you damn well better”, she whispers.
AKD 1900-1988 (1:57)
Now all the gathered radiance of her life is scattered for the wind of heaven to blow about the earth, where He wills at His pace, be it fast or slow,
We saw it in the sweetness of her smile, her unrelenting vigor and support of us in living out her dreams, her wisdom and her folly, all she sought,
We saw it in her planned obedience to what she knew to be God’s holy law,
We saw it in her look of innocence when, struggling to the end, she looked and saw only the good in us,
Then she was whole, though frail, the strength she’d had become a hole through which God’s grace was poured.
My Mother’s Grit (2:53)
Born on the first of March 1900 she narrowly escaped the fate of Frederick in the Pirates of Penzance; was barely three when her short-sightedness made it mandatory for her to become a spectacle rather than a beauty,
Four brothers taught her to be tough, with stiff upper lip she survived boarding school, bookkeeping, and staying single till she was 30,
Married, she bore four children, left them for ten long months to travel in 1939 to England for the sake of her husband’s work,
After the war, as her husband languished in a psychiatric hospital, a shame kept hidden from all but the closest friends, she literally kept the home’s fires burning, with hand cut wood,
Showed the tension only occasionally, survived on a dwindling income by restricting her own outings, growing vegetables and keeping chickens,
She encouraged our creativity in many ways, sharing her love and knowledge of native plants, taking us on joyous picknick outings, filling wet winter days with a variety of crafty activities, making presents for each other and friends, polishing the silver, setting us to write to pen friends,
When her husband died, she remained in the family home, tending her garden and welcoming her friends and family to share her joy in its living beauty for another fifteen years,
She saw her children marry, bear her grandchildren, abandoned her home after 50 years only when my daughter was killed,
Her cancer recurred, the only sign of the grief she would never reveal in tears,
The grit embedded in her life, transmuted into mother of pearl.
(Note: the reference to the Pirates of Penzance is due to one of the characters in that play, Frederick, having been born on the 29th of February and a host of comic issues he faces due to technically only receiving a birthday once every four years.)
The Reluctant Housewife (The Chef’s Dilemma) (4:58)
I hated cooking dinner, day after weary day,
And when the children came from school, I thought it time to play,
I’d cook them scones and rock cakes, and serve them cups of tea,
But when it came to dinner time my mind was all at sea,
The menu had strict limits, there had to be some meat,
Cooked ‘til it simply fell apart, and took no time to eat,
And this was cooked in gravy, a thin one known as jus,
Which consisted of meat juices mixed with fat and water too,
I was excellent at burning, both meat and veggies too,
I might have managed better if I’d tried a simple stew,
There had to be potatoes, boiled, drained and shaken too,
So they would be all floury and soak up lots of jus,
And jus was all important, I’ve been in lots of strife,
The meals I cooked forgetting jus have shortened my sweet life,
And the meat was always beefsteak, because that was what he knew,
And although he was Australian in his speech and thinking too,
There were certain things, he was quite sure, that must be the way he knew,
So, I don’t cook Australian, nor do I cordon bleu,
In fact, I hate Bose cooking, I’d rather bread and jam,
With cheese to give me protein or a great big slice of ham,
So, bear with me if I go out to eat at KFC,
Though I’d rather go out to Sizzlers or eat Chinese for my tea,
And when I reach the promised land, I’ll employ a cook each day,
So I can sit and write rude verse, and the children can still play.
(Note: its not fully clear to me after talking with gran and doing some research whether the gravy she mentions is a Dutch thing called something like 'shoe' and pronounced as such, or if its just a version of the French word and meat gravy 'Jus'. I opted for the latter in my transcription as I figured it would not cause as much confusion.)
His Old Red Scarf (6:53)
His old red scarf still hangs on the door handle, ragged at the edges from overuse, it should be discarded; but I leave it, a reminder,
Dark red, it speaks of his love, how he splattered blood for me, sticking with a job where he was denigrated, managing our finance, making detailed lists for holidays to cope with my disorganisation, after Domonic was born, doing the grocery shopping for me,
Faithfully staying the course through my severe depression though he too wanted to die,
When we married, he was not interested in my knitting, no thanks, he didn’t want a jumper, until I was pregnant and started on baby clothes, then he wanted a jumper; the scarf came later,
In bed he was cold around the neck, I knitted an old familiar pattern: two plain, two pearl, with an odd stich to make a rib,
He loved it, always wore it with his dressing gown, it has a crinkly, cobbled edge, where, having no red left, I mended it with black.
His Hands (8:13)
His hands are warm, comforting, dry humoured, still unmarked,
Until you look inside to see the knots formed by years of clenching them in frustration.
Cleaning Windows (8:31)
He says, “the windows of the bungalow need cleaning”,
“Why bother?” I think, no one looks through them, it’s only used for storage, both our girls dump things,
Why clean windows when the floor is sinking, the ceiling is parting from the walls so dirt drops down upon bed and wall where rain has found an entry?
Why indeed?
But I find myself washing walls, tidying the place,
He stands there coughing, not up to helping but appreciative,
I remember when he tiled the floor for his mother, it took days of painstaking planning; the tiles have not shifted in thirty-five years,
Now he feels as decrepit as the rest of the bungalow, wonders if perhaps I might be prepared to throw him on the dust heap,
And I, would I rip that whole thing up and lose that work of love?
So, I take a cloth and clean windows until they sparkle and I can see the delight in his reflection.
Domonic (9:40)
Fair head hallowed by the sun, he sits atop the steps, watching the passing cars and passers-by,
He does not strive to do, to overcome, accomplish, or to claim his share of fame,
He’s content to be,
Isn’t he wise, we with our open eyes miss half the things he sees,
We in our busyness, miss the calm rest he knows.
For Rachel, the Carer (10:11)
Her mind goes double time, half on her cooking, half listening for her husband,
Was that bump she heard him falling, again? Or just knocking into a door,
She listens to her daughter, excitedly telling her about her morning with Gran, “we read Dr. Suess, one fish, two fish, and I swept up the leaves fallen on the carpet, then I dusted upstairs while Gran read Lily Quench, and I got the kettle out, filled it with water, checked that it works, I put out biscuits,
Suddenly a noise, she turns off the stove, rushes to the bedroom to investigate, her man has decided he needs a rest, she settles him and returns to her cooking,
So often he has fallen, the loss of power on his left has left him unbalanced, his foot dragging, he readily trips,
Palliative care relieves her briefly, but he has no awareness of danger, no impulse control, always full of ideas he has no ability to achieve,
He depends on her for everything, she’s exhausted, wonders, can she keep going? Her patience wears thin, but she stretches it further, cherishes him through all those vicissitudes.
David, My Son (11:41)
Tall and slender he moves with quiet grace, absorbed in work, his wife, his child to be,
Caring and capable he serves his God, classifying plants, preserving native flora for future generations,
Loving and steadfast, he has endeared himself, become one of us, revealed himself to be a gentle-man.
Ripper Poems