in the arsehole of diogenes

NEO-HERACLITUS_____________Qweir Notions in the arsehole of Diogenes: weBlog of a septuagenarian Binge-thinker since February 2008.
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Saturday, 6 October 2018

I hardly noticed that I had no father,

and I think I have been most fortunate
in not having one (except for one primordial, unfortunate moment
which cost my mother dear).

But here are two poems by a great Irish poet
who seems to have revered her father.


My Father, Long Dead

My father, long dead,
has become air
Become scent
of pipe smoke, of turf smoke, of resin
Become light
and shade on the river
Become foxglove,
buttercup, tree bark
Become corncrake
lost from the meadow
Become silence,
places of calm
Become badger at dusk,
deer in the thicket
Become grass
on the road to the castle
Become mist
on the turret
Become dark-haired hero in a story
written by a dark-haired child

*

Guardian

My father,
a most gentle man,
fed the leavings of the table
to nesting crows
that screamed and whirled
in a nearby stand of trees.
From a branch of sycamore
that overhung
his newly-planted drills,
he suspended
by its gnarled legs
one dead crow;
for weeks
the wind-jigged carcass
swung there
in a crazy parody of flight.
My father,
a most gentle man,
appeasing the dark gods,
their appetite
for sustenance,
for blood.

*

EILEEN SHEEHAN


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