The Last Gesture

Posted on by celfypridd

The last gesture.

A dirty ward,

bedsheets unchanged.

It was simple really

the doctors failed you

and we were left

listening as they lied.

But the infection nevertheless

caused your dying to be long,

your body racked with pain.

The helplessness remains.

And when your last breath

had eased away your will

we closed your eyes

with our loss.

And we brought you home,

laying you out in your coffin

on the table in the front room.

It is our custom for the dead

to be brought back,

to be watched over

to be cared for at the last.

To make sure they know

their dying is over

and their souls are loved.

We lit candles at night

and sat with you in vigil

while our children came in

to peer over the wood

of the coffins edge

Is grandad asleep?

Is he really tired?

Does he need to rest?

Is he in heaven now?

And we spoke of him,

of the way he loved them,

so that he could listen too,

and hear the words

chosen to explain

so they would not fear

these final goings and leavings

of something so familiar

we will all face some day,

and in our own time.

You looked small

in that wooden box,

and before they fixed

the lid down, I placed

a bunch of rosemary

and lavender in your hand.

 

 

Rob Cullen

FAY

Posted on by celfypridd

DSC_7552

A hidden stream runs deep

through the soil under this town.

There is the river, of course

churning through its channelled

constricted structured way.

But there is another web

of hidden trickling streams

a ream of unwritten rivulets

that oozes in silence deep

beneath the roads and stones,

those familiar names and voices

and streets laced with that great

intricacy of unintended design.

An interlocking mesh

of unwritten words

of so many hopes,

deeds long forgotten

lives toiling endlessly

to ensure that food

and clothes were bought

and children could eat and grow.

(Excerpt “FAY”)

 

The Black Box

Posted on by celfypridd

The Black Box.

 

It’s been the first night

I’ve slept right through

In a month or more

I woke thinking

Of you and that black box

You used to keep

under your bed

and those messages

from the past it contained.

A few words written

On brown parcel paper

With the correct postage

Sent from Germany

In nineteen forty five

You wrote to your love

Breaking out tonight

Heading for American lines

But you ended up

With the Russians instead

And we laughed at that

So typical of our dad.

But there was that faded

Old telegram too

So fragile now

From where you’d

Handled it so often

Telling you your brother

Had died that morning.

He’d fought in the war

Just like you

And came home

To the  austerity

Of a land on its knees

Not free from desease

And the virulency of TB

That defied the hope

Of that miracle

Drug penicillin.

People have forgotten

The fear contagion

Of disease could bring

My poor uncle

Visited his old home

And his family

In Ireland for that last time

Not knowing

That he carried

A death sentence

And passed the disease

to his younger brother

And to his own daughter

Then when it came

To having tests in school

Before inoculation

It was found that

I was immune

And I must have been

exposed to it too.

But luck showed its hand

And stood on my

Right shoulder.

As children we’d run

around the street

singing that old jingle

Who won the war

in nineteen forty four.

And my father

Would say quietly

You shouldn’t believe

In such lies

And that constant

Bragging of the greatness

Of the British Empire.

We fought in a war

But paid for it dearly

War is never something

To be bragged over.

 

Rob Cullen 18/05 2016.

Terra Sigillata

Posted on by celfypridd

 

An afternoon of planting

in the raised bed

and I started to return

to the house

 

Stopping to wash

The soil from my hands

In warm rainwater

Gathered in a tub.

 

I watched the earth

As fine as silt

Slowly drift through

The waters depth

 

I washed my hands

In the past

Hands covered

In red and grey clay

 

In that old wood shed

Of the pottery

Cold water kept to make

Terra sigillata.

On lies and lies

Posted on by celfypridd

On lies and lies.

A lie

Told

Never

To be withheld

A lie

So devastating

Lives changed

In ways

No person

Could anticipate

Expect

Or rationalise.

 

He prayed

To god

That one

His one

But over

Many years

Never

Receiving

An answer

He presumed

He was Jesus.

On the cross

Jesus

Cried aloud

“My God – Father

 My God – Father

Why hast you

Forsaken me?”

And so war

Is waged

In the name

Of a father

Who remains

Silent

Impassive even

And the people ask

Father

Why allow

Such cruelty

If we are

True believers?

And the reply?

Silence.

Listen

To the “wise” men

Insist

God

Is on our side

Ordering

Young men

To destroy

In the name

Of the righteous.

Pitifully

It’s the same

On the other sides

“Wise” men

Order the young

To kill

In the name

Of a silent

God

The same god

Our father.

The old

Talk

To the young

Father

Son

Holy ghost

Silence

A Buddhist

Priest spoke to me

About standing

In Auschwitz

Overcome

By the reality

Of Man’s ability

To justify.

It’s juxtaposition

A belief

In irrationality

To justify

Inhumanity

Or is this

The fantasy

That we are somehow

Rationale beings?

 

As a species

Our father

Our God

Remains

Silent

Forever

We look

We search

For signs.

Silence

We look

We search

For signs

Silence

And still

You ask

Why does

Our Father

Ein Tad

Yahweh

God

Let such

Bad things

Happen?

Silence.

We look

For signs

We are rationale

There must be

Signs.

 

So now

The wise men

Do not mention

Our father

Our God

They speak

Of the rightness

Of the need

To assist

To help

To prevent

But not God.

War is

A necessity

To protect us

From the threat

God

Silence

Priests

The “wise”

Silent.

They walk

In their processions

To celebrate

The lives taken

The lives lost

And the slaughter

But the devastation

Of lives

Silence.

The loss

Of Love

The grieving

Of a life

Through

A life

Silence.

And so

The prayers

Are mouthed

The words

Of the hymnal

Sung aloud

And

Father

Our father

Is silent

Its rationale

To believe

In the irrational

The Emperor

Has no clothes.

Irrational

It does not

Apply.

You must believe

In the silence

of the invisible

Of the Father

Who cares

But

Doesn’t care

It’s irrational

To be rationale

Pray

Silence

Are we all

Gods?

Is God dead?

Silence.

 

Rob Cullen