mourning denied

Another death of the generation that included my parents prompted thoughts which eventually led to this poem.  It is not about a specific person, but is rather an emotional amalgam of responses to people I have known who have died.

     When I was training to be a teacher a remark that got a cheap laugh was a comment by one lecturer that we would discover that a major advantages of being a member of the profession was the quality of the conversation in the staff room!

     Any teachers reading that might laugh and think, "Well, you obviously haven't been in my staff room!"  But they should pause for a moment and think.  Even with the relaxation of the all-graduate rule for teachers, the majority of your colleagues will have degrees or other professional qualifications.  They are likely to be articulate and to have a reasonable breadth of general knowledge.  They will have detailed subject-specific expertise and will be articulate.  They are, in many ways, an elite!

     I know that many of you will say that knowledge, articulacy and professionalism are not restricted to teachers - and I have vivid memories of people I worked with in vacation jobs during my time in University who were astonishingly accomplished: I particularly recall one administrative desk worker in a now defunct steel works in Cardiff who had the most amazingly wide ranging breadth of general knowledge that I have ever come across; a garage mechanic who had a flawless memory; an almost retired manual worker whose economy of action was almost poetic, and a whole array of people whose kindness, understanding and helpfulness was not only revelatory but also humbling.

     But teaching colleagues are a stimulating, interesting and vital lot!  And you share a common culture of education, a common concern and understanding.  And that is something you only value when you no longer have access to it.

     I am, and I have found many occasions to remind readers that, I am retired.  I have had the good fortune to be able to continue and complete an Open University degree that I started in the 1970s, so I was part of an continuing educational community; I have started a municipal course in Spanish and I am starting another degree in which the first module is Spanish as well.  I have friends in Spain who teach; I am a member of a Poetry Workshop - you can see where this is going.  I am still privileged to have a circle of acquaintances who have a high level of education and are knowledgeable about the world and their place in it.

     There is something very comforting to feel yourself part of a sort of international high culture: the sort of western-white-male dominated idea of civilisation that institutions like the Open University exist to challenge.  But the knowledge of 'famous' poetry and 'classic' books and 'renowned' art and 'great' music makes you a member of what is probably a shrinking circle of educated people who still have a sort of common language based on shared cultural attitudes and knowledge.

     All of the above and a concern that age is something that becomes more pressing when the generation that we thought was old is dying and we are now the ones taking their place informs the impetus of the following poem.  The comforting adults of our youth are dead, or no longer in a position to offer the stability and security that they once represented.  

     But we, the new old generation have a responsibility to keep alive the traits that we observed and which formed our attitudes as we were growing up.  

     And there is something pleasingly selfish and 'right' about keeping memory of what used to be alive, so that in a real sense, we can be the ones to make sure that we can do our bit for the "ragged generation" to make sure that we live a life of "mourning denied" in celebration of what they give and gave.

                  mourning denied

            waiting for death

to tidy up

a ragged generation,

fraying towards indignity

            the modern way can fuel

a heart beat’s tick,

but can’t reveal the look of

arch élan I know once lived

behind those eyes;

or let a giggle bubble up

to spice a culture

cherished, shared

            temptation is to use

a form of past

to shape the verbs –

but while a glimmer

of the life I knew

exists

            I’ll use my memory to curve

a knowing smile

along chapped lips

In this poem I have gently experimented with punctuation and indentation: you will notice that I have kept some punctuation with each stanza but generally omitted it at the beginning and each of each.

I am haunted by a comment that I think I heard first on Radio 4 that, "we now die of what we used to die with" - this poem is a response to that thought too.

Any comments welcome.