The Dead, Returned

[Vincent Turner]

(Father)

Night shift done. Dirty-tired and
tired-high, drinking coffee in a greasy spoon

my father brought back. Not from the grave,
worm-ridden and unalike, but sleep sagged

and dressed for work. Returned to me
unknowingly by the strawberry cheeked

school girl eating toast. He sits opposite
recreating the sea, mid storm. lathering

wave after wave of butter that spills
from each corner of crust. We do not

speak at such an early hour, but silence
silence with a chorus of slurped tea.

This I now repeat. For him, me,
for such moments that I cannot.


(Grandma)

Stopped at a hard-shoulder
cursing the piranha bite of a February dawn,
waiting for the youngest
to finish his cobweb aimed piss,
two horses billow breath
and swish mist with their tails.
Entranced by the rhythmic lash
I see her shuffling the plank
of the lazy-chairs arm, stopping
every so often to tiptoe and
flail the feather-duster at the
clutter of drooped web and snared fly.


(Holocaust Victim from an old school book)

It was a "bad news" call
decided by the lateness of the hour
confirmed by the spitfire-panic
of words tripping from the tongue-
"Delusional, semi-naked, lost,
police, could it be drugs?
Please find him, God he must be scared"
We ate the roads that ate the night
zipping through towns,
putting our backs to darkness.
You spotted him
balled up on a half-burnt bench
shivering and wide-eyed
lacking trousers or top.
the damp of night
twinkling from the spiked
strands of a three-quarter shaved head.
Rib-thin and feather-light
we unpeeled him,
placed him between forgotten coats.
Away from the horror
away from himself.

[gavin]

This poem gave me chills dawn my back


Night shift done. Dirty-tired and
tired-high, drinking coffee in a greasy spoon
my father brought back.

Is he a miner suffering from coal dust, he is a slave to his work
Like a mill-horse tide to a mill stone; the industrial revolution
By which man became equal, with child labour, the potato famine,

Not from the grave,
worm-ridden and unalike, but sleep sagged
and dressed for work.

How is it that the builders of great nations on incentive’s to push,
Comes home looking like something valueless, smoking, drunk,
And eye level is kept in its place; the poor, and yet they work harder?

Returned to me
unknowingly by the strawberry cheeked
school girl eating toast. He sits opposite
recreating the sea, mid storm. lathering
wave after wave of butter that spills
from each corner of crust.

You can see him sitting there this man who is slowly giving his life away so you can go to school, there is so many things happening in that moment, the subtlest of good intentions would disturb the morning harmony;
your farther is shackled to an pattern of slavery;

We do not
speak at such an early hour, but silence
silence with a chorus of slurped tea.

He is unable to speak to you because of his lack of education
His intellect his thoughts are unable to reach out to you unless he’s got a bottle in his mouth;

This I now repeat. For him, me,
for such

are you repeating him, are you the same as him,

i shall do the others later

[ray miller]

I don't make much of the last tale but I liked the other two, especially the first.

Need a semi-colon after spoon? Unalike is a great word in this context.

such moments when I cannot? Though I find the last line hard to get.

piranha bite of a February dawn isn't working for me.

rhythmic slash?

[Vincent Turner]

Hi Ray

such moments when I cannot? Though I find the last line hard to get.

I too am struggling with this line. I know what I want to say but at present cannot quite say it.

I knew when writing it that it was a weakness but did not feel able to change it at that time.

I don't make much of the last tale

The last one is, I suppose, me trying to be too clever for my own good, where the first two poems deal directly with "known" people brought back through a visual trigger, the last does not. It is obviously not about a holocaust victim, but is about the image of the victim being brought back to me, though the physical/emotional demise of someone who I know and who went to find after a concerned phone call etc.

Not quite sure what to do with the final one. Cant change the title, as the person in question is, thankfully still with us, but I wanted to include the memory in the poem... ah the poets life, so full of quandary!!!

Thanks for the input Ray.

Let's see where this one takes me....

Best Regards

Vincent

[Vincent Turner]

"Delusional, semi-naked, lost,
police, could it be drugs?
Please find him, God he must be scared"

Am now wondering if the third poem could do without the lines above???

any thoughts.

Best Regards

and thanks

Vincent

[ray miller]

You could lose the section in italics, I suppose, what does this part least favour is the title, I think.I'd do something about "rib-thin and feather light " as well - it just makes me think of condoms. Unless his name is Johnny.

I meant to ask before, you having said you worked at an Alcohol Unit - are you a Mental Health Nurse? I used to be in the bizz myself.

[Conal]

for such moments that I cannot - speak - yes, ending on cannot does leave it hanging in the air, you could just remove the full stop or add...

chair's arm?

Drugs? I wondered about this in connection to the Holocaust? Drugs seems much more relevant today than then, but it depends on the influence I guess? Nits aside, these are the best poems I have read here - so far. I thought some of the lines highly original; hard to do when so much has already been written a thousand times.

Title - may be the Dead Return ?

[Helen Bywater]

Hi Vincent,

I think the first two are excellent.

(Father) is like a little scene in a film.

But do you need a comma after "greasy spoon"? It reads as if it was the spoon that was brought back, but I think you mean your father. The last two lines are a little awkward, as you've also observed.

The second is possibly my favourite, except for "cursing the piranha bite of a February dawn". "The piranha bite" is perhaps a little self-consciously poetic anyway, but juxtaposed with "cursing" it created (for me) an uninentional comic effect, like someone saying, "Curse the piranha bite of this dawn!"

(Actually, I rather like that phrase - I may use it some winter morning.)

But other than that, I love it. It reminded me a little (without being at all derivative) of Ted Hughes and one of my favourite poems. You can guess which one!

The last I don't think fits wih the other two particularly well, as it is. And "away from himself"? How do you know? That seems to be assuming more than you could hope to read from observing this person.

I like these lines a lot:

"We ate the roads that ate the night
zipping through towns,
putting our backs to darkness."

Enjoyed the read,
Thanks.
Helen