I realise that this is not the first time that I have experienced the 'death' of a generation - my grandparents and great uncles and aunts died some time ago - but this time I sensed a real and personal loss. Don't get me wrong, the death of my paternal grandmother was a crushing, catastrophic blow to my young self, and I felt, deeply, the deaths of my other grandparents, but uncles and aunts were the contemporaries of my parents and their loss was somehow more direct and appreciated as a 'loss' as well as a death. I knew some of my uncles and aunts in a way that was not really possible with my grandparents. I had conversations with my uncles and aunts that I could never have had with my grandparents.
The final representative of that generation of uncles and aunts has gone and I added a poem to a sequence called The Visit that I wrote when I came to Cardiff and Newport on the occasion of the death of my father's younger brother's wife. I don't mean to distance her by that description, but it gives a sense of the geography of family relationships in a genealogical sense. The funeral memorial service that I attended this time was of my father's younger sister - who was 86 years old.
We had had many interesting and stimulating conversations over the years, we shared an interest in art, music and literature and, in spite of her debilitating illness that limited her for decades she always managed a wry comment and an ironic smile when we met.
Her loss was real. On our last visit she told me, "You have your father's hands" - a simple statement, but one which gave me pause for thought and the inspiration for a poem.
Having read the two poems which related to my aunt from The Visit in the Lady Chapel of Llandaff Cathedral in Cardiff, I felt that my aunt would have approved, and the process also helped me to come to terms with her death and the realization of the death of her generation of the family.
The following poem is, at the title suggest, an epilogue to the events and my thoughts on the events of a closing chapter of my family.
I am not sure that my poetry has become darker as I get older, but there is certainly an appreciation that my generation is the next in line!
Epilogue
“They have all gone.”
That is the sort of
phrase
where shifting
emphasis
rewrites the sense
– and all of it
applies.
So let’s just choose a
metaphor,
and muse within the
safety of a scene.
The final pilot’s boat has sailed
and all the coasts and continents
are left for us to chart alone –
although,
it’s right,
that our cartography
has used, as truth, throughout the years,
unauthorized and wild mistakes;
assumption-sucking hopes and fears;
while ignorance and certainty,
help firm the lines we draw and drew.
Sometimes we say (with a wry smile)
“Here there be dragons,”
or maintain a quiet
(dignified and dry)
while tapping spaces
intimating that there’s
nothing, much, to see.
Material?
Fragile.
Precarious.
On parchment, papyrus or paper sheet,
we gaze at inked-in places
dotted on our maps
(italic, bold, Times
Roman strong)
unfolded in our smoothing hands
that dare not stretch the page too far
as ripping up such thin, slight plans
leave only tears to hide beside.
As I aways say (and really mean!) I welcome any comments on the poem, as I regard everything that I write as work in progress and am always open to suggestions!
SMR
