The Poetry Marathon

Dear Grandad

Do I call you Grandad? Or Grandpa. Gramps?
We never got to meet so we never got to clear that up.
To be honest I’m not sure I like any of them.
You do have a pretty distinctive first name though.
Valentine Hennessy.

I think Dad is disappointed that we never got to meet.
He often talks about you.
Says it’s a shame that you had your accident before Mum got pregnant
He has a lot of stories about you.

I do wonder how much of what he tells me is true.
It can’t all be drunk man from Dublin stories.
I wish we had met. I’d have had my first beer much earlier.

I’d like to think that we’d get on. I’m a wannabe performer too.
Some call me a show-off.
It would have been nice to have another one in the family I could relate to
Someone to play off?
Then again, maybe that would have gotten annoying eventually

It’s strange to write this for you
I feel I should tell you about my life
My hopes and dreams
You know, the standard stuff.
But, Dad says you’re like me (or I’m like you)
You prefer talking than listening.

There is only one picture of you in the house I remember
It’s one of you at Mum and Dads wedding.
You look absolutely shit faced!
Rum and black in one hand, a cigarette in the other
You don’t look steady on your feet.
Your grin is something though.
Kind of proud and cheeky
Like you’re laughing at a punchline only you’d get.

You look like you’re having fun.

If it turns out there is no afterlife then I apologise for wasting your time.
If there is one, I hope we can meet up someday and properly have this conversation.

I’ll probably find you near the bar.

Cheers Val

Your Grandson
David

Its difficult to stay positive
When the world seems to be full of people
Who can’t listen, who won’t listen
To anyone they disagree with
Condemning the other side as evil or traitors
Rather than finding common ground

We are living in the age of reason
And we all seem to have a reason to hate right now

I understand why, its easier
To just believe that the other side are wrong
And not just factually but morally
Remove them from the debate because they don’t deserve
The consideration we show to the people who agree with us
And its not like they wouldn’t do the same thing to me
Nuance is the enemy
And compromise defeat

We are all living in the age of reason
And we all seem to have a reason to hate right now

But this is not sustainable people
We need to find common ground
Look across the barricade and see
Another human being
Confused, distressed, fatally flawed
No different from the rest of us

Ingredients, you will need:

1x Global Pandemic

2x parents who’ve just got used to having the house to themselves

1x son who can’t stand having to leave the delights of the city for his parents house in the countryside

1x son with pretensions of being a comedian

1x enclosed space for all of them to cook together.

Start with your pandemic, season it liberally with panic, fear and panic buying of supplies.

Individually flavour the other ingredients with vastly varying flavours. examples include liberal attitudes to nudity, differing political viewpoints and an inability to deal with other opinions.

Lock up all ingredients in the confined space for several months. make sure to heat well with large amounts of sunshine but do not allow them outside for more than 1 hour a day.

Begin loudly pointing out all the fun things that your ingredients would be doing if they were literally anywhere else.

Let the comedian son write out a series of poems based on how frustrating he is finding everything. For extra spice, add several disparaging and thinly disguised descriptions of members of his family.

Mix said poetry with three bottles of wine at dinner. Make sure you stir well to let out all the buried resentment from the last 20 years. Sprinkle a few “OK Boomer” comments and serve with a long rant about Millennial snowflakes.

Bon appetite

There is only ever going to be one woman this poem could be about

And frankly I’m embarrassed

I know how it will look to other people

Cos it has to be my mother

Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not because I can’t think of any other women

I know loads of women

OK, maybe not loads of women

OK, some women

One or two…

But regardless there are few PEOPLE in this world

Who had more effect than my Mum did to me

And only fifty percent of that

Is motivated by fear

Don’t judge me, this is the woman

That history claims at the age of 9

Broke a 12 years old boy’s arm with a skipping rope

For doing playtime wrong!

This and other stories are perhaps the reason why

As a mother of young children

She shows great pride

In having never had to count to three

Before getting her own way.

But there are positives as well

She has:

Taught us right from wrong

“I’m right, your father’s wrong”

How to be self reliant

“What makes you think I’m going to do your ironing for you?”

How to be impartial

“I don’t care who started it! I’m finishing it!”

To have an appreciation for the natural world

“Stop lounging around the house and go play outside! I don’t care if it’s hailing!”

Unfortunately I must end this poem now

As she has just read this over my shoulder

And I only have a few lines left to say

That regardless of the fear

She did provide an example

Of someone you could be proud to be

Strong, confident, honest, fair

All a son could ask for…

Send help! Please!