POEMS/ Brief Harmony
Brief Harmony
Each molded by life’s varied clays –
a sibling lost, a child, our parents gone,
our times together shrinking as we’d aged,
I had not thought a visit with my brother
would bring our childhood closeness back,
for lately we seldom chose to speak about the past –
our own worlds full of present joys and sorrows,
both of us agreeing there was nothing left to say,
and we could not talk of politics or God,
but when he asked if I recalled the songs
our father sang to us, when after dinner
we washed up together, I could sing them all
with him, those songs of war and loss,
of fear and love, belief and doubt:
Pack up Your Troubles in your Old Kit Bag,
Just Say Goodbye to Mother,
There’s Potatoes in the Oven,
Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,
and the poor maid Belle,
who lit the stove with dynamite,
but must be up in heaven –
she was too green to burn.
Our songs united us that rainy day
as once they had before, our harmony
evoking those harsh wars within our house
that song erased, reminding us how leaving home
had brought us pleasure more than pain,
but also bringing back the smells
of dinner, the laughter in the kitchen
when our father left his cares behind –
and then, our singing over,
the moment came unspun.
From Migrations (Antrim House, 2013)
Each molded by life’s varied clays –
a sibling lost, a child, our parents gone,
our times together shrinking as we’d aged,
I had not thought a visit with my brother
would bring our childhood closeness back,
for lately we seldom chose to speak about the past –
our own worlds full of present joys and sorrows,
both of us agreeing there was nothing left to say,
and we could not talk of politics or God,
but when he asked if I recalled the songs
our father sang to us, when after dinner
we washed up together, I could sing them all
with him, those songs of war and loss,
of fear and love, belief and doubt:
Pack up Your Troubles in your Old Kit Bag,
Just Say Goodbye to Mother,
There’s Potatoes in the Oven,
Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,
and the poor maid Belle,
who lit the stove with dynamite,
but must be up in heaven –
she was too green to burn.
Our songs united us that rainy day
as once they had before, our harmony
evoking those harsh wars within our house
that song erased, reminding us how leaving home
had brought us pleasure more than pain,
but also bringing back the smells
of dinner, the laughter in the kitchen
when our father left his cares behind –
and then, our singing over,
the moment came unspun.
From Migrations (Antrim House, 2013)