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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

Soreness and observations

 

It was a small operation done quickly

Leaving the surgery I walked back

Through a town that looks and feels

As though it’s almost given up on itself

Was it eleven or twelve charity shops?

I counted amongst the Poundlands

Cash generators, betting shops

And discount off loaders of trash food

There’s an intersection of two roads

Where the dealers and drug users meet

Young men walking in that fast agitated way

Shouting to someone they could see

A couple of hundred yards away

They do that on their mobiles too

There is no intimacy in these conversation

And then there are the ball carriers

Men who walk through the streets

With a hand down the front of their trousers

Hanging on to their knob as if to reassure

Themselves that they are still a man

Then they go on to shake each others hands

Passers-by become involuntary participants

A passive invasion of blatant criminality

Then there are the men and women

On the detox programmes stick thin

Yellow skinned walking skeletons

Still looking edgy for the next deal

Today there is a new wave of men

Released from jail to the local hostel

Talking out loud about a stolen credit card

Quick use it three times thirty quid no more

Before the card is shut down by the bank

So they stand at the hole in the wall

Looking furtive looking around

Staring people down in the queue

It’s convenient that there are three cash points

On each corner they walk to each one

With that swinging wide shouldered gait

The swaggering fronting up

The tell-tale sign of a jail inmate

It’s easy to forget too that they

The men and women I observe

The flotsam and jetsam of a wrecker’s yard

Are not the cause of society’s problems

Of the fracture between the wealthy and poor

But the result of the damage that’s been done

By a political cause that proudly pronounced

“There is no such thing as society”

And so many other throw away lines

That made sure we knew our place.

Regarding subversion

 

The words are like so many dried bones

Ossified. Dust collects on them

Laid out in their piles in ossuaries

I read briefly a few words, a few lines

And feel myself begin to dry out too

As if the dehydration is contagious

Simply by casting an eye in consideration

Words without meaning or relevance

Seem to threaten to invade my thoughts

I think of Flaubert and his dread of stupidity

Words that were viewed with some importance

Apparently by a particular favoured circle

Concerning kitchen sink dramas or the view

Or the intricacies of a morose sex life

Or the guilt of solitary masturbation

Or the endlessness of the doldrums

Of the middleclass way of life

The writers speak for a narrow few

Of endless shame, of existential threat

But hold nevertheless a stranglehold

On who will be treated seriously

There lies the trick do not be serious

Do not write about spleen or phlegm

Or write with any kind of reality

Or challenge those who helplessly write

But have nothing to say

About nothing in particular.

Subversion is needed no demanded

To bring the ossuaries down.

 

RAC