At Auntie Bessie's

The old man in the rocking chair

was a piece of history

made in Queen Victoria's reign.

He was looked after at Auntie Bessie's

in the fifties and smelt of birdseed,

perhaps because the budgie cage

was on a stand next to him.

It was a dutiful outing of an hour's bus-ride

to her terraced house on drab Sundays,

a two-up two-down

just up the road from the River Dee.

There was no bathroom

and no inside toilet.

The outside toilet

was at the end of the yard,

in all weathers.

It was wincing cold in winter,

the pipes swelled with lead quenelles.

Neatly cut rectangles of the Chester Chronicle

hung from a handy hook.

The old man must have been in his eighties
and dozed in a waist coat and crumpled suit
with stains, his wedding suit, perhaps.

I never saw him awake or heard him speak.

I was his only grandson,

for all he knew destined for greatness,

perhaps, but I'm sure he didn't.

I can't imagine

how he managed with the toilet

and the tin bath in front of the fire,

if he ever had a bath,

or where he slept in a house already full

with my aunt, uncle and three cousins.

His parents had worked with horses

and died of anthrax, a late Victorian death.

My great-great grandparents

brought him up from the age of six,

otherwise he might have

gone to a bestial orphanage

or a crippling workhouse

and I might not have

been here, so I owe them,

and so do my descendants,

and maybe the whole of mankind.

My mother said he made picture frames

and was a bookie's runner.

He never fought in a war.

He was the only grandparent I ever met

of the four who made me.

His parents who died of anthrax

were two of the eight who made me.

The great-great grandparents

who brought up my grandfather

were two of the sixteen who made me.

I know nothing of the thirty-two

great-great-great grandparents

who made me, or of the sixty-four,

or of the one hundred and twenty-eight,

or of the two hundred and fifty-six....

 

(By this reckoning, tracing backwards,

eventually the number of my ancestors,

and yours, should reach a larger figure

than the present population of the world,

but it doesn't.)

                        .

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Eilis]

I recently began to delve into my genealogy and was surprised by the number of connections I found. I hadn't really thought about how many families were connected to mine, and how each couple brought with it another part of the lineage which was itself connected to seemingly infinite numbers of people. I discovered that the town I live in was settled by some of my relatives, and that our family was well-to-do at one point, but that is all lost to history.

I really enjoyed how you explored something like that idea with this poem. Maybe we see ourselves through too small of a lens at times, and forget that we wouldn't be here if maybe one different thing had happened. But even if it wasn't for us, someone else would have taken that place. Maybe it's a humbling thought, or maybe it makes us realize we ought to do something a little more with the time we've got. I don't know. But, I liked the way this began with the one man as his life was winding down, and how his life seemed, perhaps, irrelevant to a child. But, then the story moved back out to encompass the idea of human time itself.

Something about the unfathomable meeting the prosaic reality of our lives. How important and unimportant things can seem according to how we view them. I enjoyed the voice which seemed to be fascinated and jaded simultaneously. Also, the play with the idea of self and how it matters so much to us (who we are) but maybe it's not that important in the grander scheme. I'm still thinking about it, but I really liked how this translated in my head.

[Gerald Parker]

I love the depth with which you respond to a poem, Eilis. I suppose that's what a poem is meant to do, make us bounce ideas of it, let them spin away at a tangent. I'm relived this hastily scribbled piece manages to communicate. I only wrote it last night, letting it run away with itself, as I had to meet the Friday deadline for another site I'm on. I made a few adjustments after posting. The pitiful man I describe was all I had for a grandfather. I think the poem is obliquely lamenting what I missed by never knowing my grandparents. I greatly enjoyed your review.

[John the Baptist]

This work is an interesting comment on history. In the days before the nursing home industry arose, elderly people who could no longer take care of themselves were taken in by relatives. The gentleman described here was obviously suffering from dementia, unable to recognize his grandson. His parents died of anthrax, unheard of today. Despite the deficiencies of modern healthcare, we are immeasurably better off than our predecessors, who could expect nothing better.

[Gerald Parker]

Thanks for commenting, John.