{"id":4070,"date":"2015-04-15T10:25:45","date_gmt":"2015-04-15T10:25:45","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/?p=4070"},"modified":"2015-04-15T10:25:45","modified_gmt":"2015-04-15T10:25:45","slug":"dad-a-eulogy-a-poem-by-allison-grayhurst","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/dad-a-eulogy-a-poem-by-allison-grayhurst\/","title":{"rendered":"Dad – A Eulogy. A Poem by Allison Grayhurst"},"content":{"rendered":"

“My life was my peace, now,
\nin the moment of my release.”<\/p>\n

    *** <\/ol>\n

    Under here in the dark
    \ndeepest dream, the cold
    \nloss, unbearable change,
    \nI cry out blood. I have no
    \novercoat, no more protection.
    \nIt is now a different light I seek,
    \nan alchemized marrow in my bones.
    \nDo I sing, for death is peace,
    \nand death is the edge that slices
    \nthe tongue in two, that drains the cup
    \nof every drink? Home – I have lost
    \nthe essential tie. I have lived with a bond
    \nso beautiful, now broken by fate and the blue-turning
    \ncheek. How will I know my own grief,
    \nthe shattering that eclipses all but faith?
    \n\tIn the newspaper turning, I smell
    \nyour hairspray, I hear your boisterous voice.
    \nI clasp in my hands the raw fire of nevermore.
    \nStand close to my mirror,
    \nand help me breathe in and out,
    \nhelp me take into my own
    \nyour generous heart.<\/p>\n

      *** <\/ol>\n

      I knelt before his photograph
      \non the casket and we talked
      \nof gratitude and goodbyes. I saw
      \ncompassion’s light, there, in
      \nhis dark tremendous eyes.
      \nI felt the tearing off of seven layers of skin.
      \nI held my hands together. Faith,
      \nwhere is your shield? Your cradle
      \nto rest my shattered spine? Each cell
      \nis reformed by his departure. I am left
      \nin the winter wind without clothing
      \nor a protective tree. <\/p>\n

        *** <\/ol>\n

        Cut, the thin clouds
        \ncut a pathway within
        \nwhere loss is deep as God.
        \nMy fingers move like trains
        \nback and forth. Ashes in an urn. Graveyard green
        \nflavoured by tears. I whisper to him when on the gravel road.
        \nI see him beyond the fence, in the coming
        \nDecember snows. I need him like before,
        \nwhen hearing children talk, when waiting
        \nfor a terrible moment to pass. He formed a giving spirit,
        \nrooted in integrity. Angels come and go,
        \nhovering in my pocket books and on highways
        \nI never cross. They touch the seagulls’
        \noutgoing breath, they write his name
        \non Scarborough cliffs. I will not mourn
        \nwith unholy regrets, nor would I change
        \nthe tension in his nerves. <\/p>\n

          *** <\/ol>\n

          In closets, memories pile,
          \ntheir scents and wooden colours
          \nfor years at rest in unchanged
          \nshadowed hovels. I find myself
          \nin unfamiliar rooms, emptied
          \nof hope and the driven smile.
          \nI find the walls pulsing, and the floor,
          \na bruised body I have cried for.
          \nIn years, this hot blood of loss
          \nwill thin and this tumour of unbuffered
          \npain will shrink and mend. In years, I will
          \nsee his picture and spend a Christmas under a pink sun.
          \nNovember winds will wrap me in
          \na sweet and grateful slumber.<\/p>\n

            *** <\/ol>\n

            Hammered by a kaleidoscope of memories,
            \nthrough the grand “if” and the willy-nilly
            \nconfines of love. Rifts in the pavement
            \nI walk on today, still stunned by the enormous
            \nand the unchangeable, still frightened of my thoughts
            \nthat go into the hard void, into the unfocused
            \nstare and the image of him lying there,
            \nno longer. Up & down craters beyond
            \nthis century’s grasp, beyond the books
            \nI’ve read and anguish before encountered.
            \nHe answers me in my head, wakes me at 2 am.
            \nHe protects me still, though his arms have bent
            \nto the cold, unforgiving ash.<\/p>\n

              *** <\/ol>\n

              Appleseeds I’ll never bury.
              \nEvergreens lean towards the greying sky.
              \nHe is there like a shadow on my back, there
              \nin the wheat-coloured grass.
              \nHe is over the city factories,
              \nhis face resides on graffiti walls.
              \nAnd on telephone wires I see him sit
              \nwith the starlings, smell him in the scent
              \nof evening rain. I hear his stories from
              \nthe beautiful lips of children. I think
              \nI’ll see him tomorrow again, know his
              \npaternal warmth, the way his smile lifted
              \nthe corners of his mouth.
              \nTime is drifting into the homes of strangers,
              \nas death strides beside every dream
              \nliving, defiled or lost.
              \nHe surrounds me like the sounds of a streetcar
              \nrunning, and I am running, struggling
              \nto stop, lay down and to be reborn.<\/p>\n

                *** <\/ol>\n

                Ocean-cold and wooed by the tongues
                \nof snakes. Miracles abound,
                \nbut still grief gnaws a pathway
                \nthrough my torso. Trees are singing
                \nof the flames I sleep in and the empty
                \ndays toss me to and fro, from heavy tears
                \nto rage. How without him in the huge,
                \nunpredictable world? How without his loud
                \nand open gifts? Landscapes where centres break
                \nand colours are no more. I touch the crocodile
                \ntooth, the boiling point of all my bones.
                \nSo alone, coupled with the uncertain dark.
                \n 
                \n 
                \nI miss his brown fiery eyes and how
                \nhe lived, pampering the hearts of others.
                \nI miss him like I would my very skin, like the shell its yolk,
                \nand the eyes, their vision – Where
                \nis the cure? Where is the farewell
                \nfrom this gruesome spell? The shock
                \nstill rivets in me. Crows spin through the clouds.
                \nDeath has been unleashed like the first feel of pain.
                \n 
                \n 
                \nBelieve me, you have reached me. Believe me,
                \nthis enemy won’t win. I will stand tall for you.
                \nI will hold your hand until morning.<\/p>\n

                  *** <\/ol>\n

                  Pale in the December sky,
                  \nthe sun is but an insect’s dream.
                  \nI leap from cabooses onto the icy tracks.
                  \nThere are people in the playground,
                  \nhappy that Christmas is near. There are
                  \nbuildings with stained-glass windows,
                  \nreminding me of the aloneness we each are
                  \nbound to endure. Now my father, I wake to find
                  \nyou hour upon hour at night. I talk to you
                  \nin half-conscious streams. In the afternoon,
                  \nI break down. Crows sit on my porch,
                  \nthen follow me through the peopled-street
                  \nwhere I swear your shoes have travelled, once
                  \nin a bachelor’s dream. And mother is all
                  \nsliced-up inside. Days and days we spend
                  \nlooking at old photos, trying to dispel
                  \nher sorrow and devouring regrets.
                  \nMy husband holds me like the best
                  \nof friends do. He carries me over
                  \n 
                  \n 
                  \nthese desert fires. I want to tell you
                  \nhow good was your influence, how soft
                  \nmy aching eyes. I want to know you again
                  \nafter I die, like you were in this life –
                  \nmy strong, my steadfast guide.<\/p>\n

                    *** <\/ol>\n

                    Old factory fields in mid-December’s light.
                    \nVacant barns and rows of suburban homes.
                    \nYou pushed me on the swing
                    \nand gave me courage to dive.
                    \nSunsets in Spain and the sounds
                    \nof the typewriter at 4 am are now part
                    \nof my muscles and nerves – you are in me
                    \nlike a fledgling in its nest or the drive
                    \nbehind my every restless year. You knew
                    \nhow the great dream fell, how rage can find
                    \nthe form of forgiveness, and the bridge
                    \nbetween our two stubborn intensities.
                    \nYou were my ally in the social sphere, my
                    \nguardian in the tower, my place of safety
                    \nand self-belief. You held me near
                    \nwhen the curtain opened, and my childhood
                    \nfastened to a ravenous storm.<\/p>\n

                      *** <\/ol>\n

                      I live in a room of brown-papered walls,
                      \nTV screens and empty teacups. I want
                      \nto give up like the hand that lets go
                      \nof the cliff or the orphaned boy
                      \nleft on the streets alone. I’m trying
                      \nto keep my head steady, but no abstractions
                      \n 
                      \n 
                      \nrelieve me, only pins and needles in my brain
                      \nand the intestinal twist that has found
                      \nits way within like a permanent companion.
                      \nPeople call, but only this empty dread
                      \nmakes its bed in my heart.
                      \n 
                      \n 
                      \nI know it is over – the special way we needed
                      \none another. I know I must take the road
                      \nto lead me on, past the dried flowers
                      \nand 1 pm breakdowns. Shakespeare at
                      \nthe dinner table and omelettes in the
                      \nafternoons – I won’t forget a single
                      \nkindness, the way you prayed
                      \non that darkest day in my adolescent life.
                      \nCeilings crack overhead. I knife
                      \na million strangers. I curse the cars
                      \ngoing by and the cockroach on the kitchen
                      \nfloor. There are no distractions from death.
                      \nThere are no soothing things to do –
                      \nbut to wait behind this cold and sealed door.<\/p>\n

                        *** <\/ol>\n

                        The cloven hoof of
                        \nthis and that blood’s pardon.
                        \nI feel the acorn hit,
                        \nthe crossing of the Nile.
                        \nI feel like an Indian summer,
                        \nand all the sweat pouring into
                        \nthe brass cup of mortal knowing.
                        \nTime, in time no love is broken,
                        \nnot the pound pound pound of his
                        \nnature, not the be-all of his voice.
                        \nI will never hear that voice again,
                        \n 
                        \n 
                        \nnot his loud centre ringing, his
                        \nmale pride, gentle in the sun.
                        \nI will never carry his water again,
                        \nor tell him – I thank God
                        \nfor you. For you and your quickened
                        \nenergy, for the artery of your moral
                        \ngestures that gave with ‘yes & no’,
                        \nwith ‘wrong & right’, the seed
                        \nof my shelter and the over-fair justice
                        \nI believed in all my childhood life.
                        \nI thank God for your walking sound,
                        \nhow the room rebounded with your
                        \nsurely presence, and the smile on
                        \nyour eccentric face, there, when we talked
                        \nof a grandchild. I thank God for the breathing space
                        \nyou gave, and the will to live out my tale.
                        \nI thank God for the hemisphere you made
                        \nand the beautiful passions you instilled
                        \nin my heart. I thank God for you –
                        \nmy weight, the reason I write
                        \nmy song.<\/p>\n

                          *** <\/ol>\n

                          If today the closed eye
                          \ntakes me to where I’ve never
                          \nbeen before, if I meet my father
                          \nin the mirror or in a five & dime store,
                          \nwould this pressure drain like the letting
                          \nof blood, would these horror-stricken
                          \ndays mean nothing now but a bitter
                          \ntossed-away cup? If he moved through
                          \na dream saying – Do not be afraid.
                          \nDo not let your mind fracture or your lips
                          \n 
                          \n 
                          \nturn blue – would I know him like
                          \nlast month or meet him with raw wonder, anew?<\/p>\n

                            The rings around my fingers.<\/ol>\n
                              The friends I cannot keep.<\/ol>\n
                                ***<\/ol>\n

                                A month crushed
                                \nin the vortex of a python’s circle.
                                \nStale breath filling my atmosphere,
                                \nand hope is but soft warm sand
                                \nbeneath the feet, is a season that
                                \nnever fades, is not what my hands
                                \ncan trace. I long for mornings
                                \nall to myself, to hear his voice
                                \nonce more on the phone. But rocking chairs
                                \nand crossword puzzles rest vacant as
                                \n2 am streets. And birthday cakes are past
                                \nlike an old person’s dreams. He returns
                                \nagain at night, alive for one more week.
                                \nRain pours onto my teeth and
                                \nnutshells are gathered by the winter’s
                                \nblack and brindle squirrels.<\/p>\n

                                  *** <\/ol>\n

                                  With grace I may be replenished.
                                  \nThis dull anguish may be replaced
                                  \nwith starlight in my belly. Or with the
                                  \nmillion winds of God’s miraculous justice,
                                  \nI may return to a little one the goodness
                                  \nhe gave, be offered the chance to feel
                                  \nthe kick, to know no stronger responsibility.
                                  \nThe same as he (with his stoic suffering
                                  \n 
                                  \n 
                                  \nand gregarious generosity) plucked the weeds
                                  \nfrom my journey’s path and made me see
                                  \nwith moral clarity the fault of all but love –
                                  \nso maybe I can be for one what he was for me.
                                  \nMaybe soon my turn will come.<\/p>\n

                                    ***<\/ol>\n

                                    Before I knew my own face
                                    \nin the reflection, I saw
                                    \nsparrows rolling in the sand
                                    \nand wished my heart open as the underpass
                                    \ncars travel through. Before I knew of death
                                    \nand its yellow-green smile. I offered
                                    \ncaramel-coated apples and chocolate bars
                                    \nto placate it. But now I stand
                                    \nbeside its smelly aftermath. I feel
                                    \nits wrenching voice fill my solitude,
                                    \nand all the mad children of this and
                                    \nother worlds echo their hell beneath
                                    \nmy many scarves and sweaters, touching
                                    \nme nude with their growing black hole.
                                    \nAnd soon I am just darkness with no size,
                                    \nno boundaries or vision of outside. Soon
                                    \nI am embittered by friendships I thought
                                    \nI had, and mountains of rage churn like
                                    \nspoilt food in my belly. I am sad too, like
                                    \nthe willow tree in my Montreal backyard.
                                    \nSad like my father when his mother died,
                                    \nand his orphan cry lied sealed inside
                                    \nlike a voiceless fear. Because now he
                                    \n 
                                    \n 
                                    \nis gone and things I often waited for
                                    \nwill never pass. No “Owl & The Pussycat”
                                    \nfor my children’s ears, no more pride in
                                    \nhis sideways smile, or trips to India
                                    \nor English moors. He will never know
                                    \nmy children\u2019s names.<\/p>\n

                                      ***<\/ol>\n

                                      Pigeons flock through the fog,
                                      \nhigh above the park benches and lamp posts.
                                      \nGuilt has no shore, but is an endless
                                      \nsea where jellyfish and stingrays
                                      \nmake their nests and the dolphin
                                      \nis no more. Our talks by the fireside
                                      \nwill never be again, or his drifting
                                      \nto sleep on the couch in the winter’s
                                      \nafter-midnight air. On Christmas eve,
                                      \nall my memories are soaked into
                                      \nthe tree’s red and blue lights. And Grandma
                                      \nis gone, as well as the dog beside me.
                                      \nBut worst is the emptiness of his vanishing,
                                      \nis the click click inside my throat
                                      \nand the razor-burn on my knees. Kneel and pray,
                                      \nfor life is nothing but this and that thing done,
                                      \nis the touching of two hearts
                                      \nand the softening of brittle ways, is to keep
                                      \nthe soul’s challenge forefront, then to sing
                                      \naround the merry table of relatives and friends,
                                      \nas if immune to bitter unbelief and fear
                                      \nthat drives the nail inward. He is
                                      \non the windowsill looking in,
                                      \nreminding me that long ago
                                      \n 
                                      \n 
                                      \nour once colliding spirits
                                      \nmade the greatest of amends.<\/p>\n

                                        ***<\/ol>\n

                                        Waves of snow outside the window,
                                        \nmoving like pure isolation, cleansing all
                                        \nwith its cold fury. Last night
                                        \nI hugged him in a short farewell in my head,
                                        \nin the blue fog of a dream. And waking
                                        \nI found peace in January calling. Outside
                                        \na city hawk circled, blessing me and mine
                                        \nwith its instinct so talon-strong and
                                        \nclose to God. Families I never knew
                                        \nhave opened my heart. Barnyards and lithe trees,
                                        \nstretch toward the silver sun. I miss him
                                        \nat the dinner table and when the wine is served,
                                        \nwhen all the things of hopes and wonders
                                        \nimplode within. Into the scent of dried rose petals
                                        \ndeath dives with mad glee. Water-towers
                                        \ncut a hole through eternity. The wrinkled word
                                        \nI cannot speak. The keepsakes (like hot wax
                                        \npouring onto my belly) cause a redness
                                        \nthat releases my broken-heart’s moan. And hanging,
                                        \n– my flesh, my guilt, my grief –
                                        \nnow and forever merged, undeniably atoned.<\/p>\n

                                          *** <\/ol>\n

                                          <\/strong><\/p>\n

                                          \"Allison<\/a>
                                          \n 
                                          \nBio:
                                          \n <\/p>\n