for Mowie
It’s never fun to have a tooth pulled out,
But suffering with abscesses is worse!
They make one want to pound one’s fist and shout.
Still, no one likes to have a tooth pulled out.
If I were you, I’d sit and glumly pout,
Then fill the air with every sort of curse!
It’s never fun to have a tooth pulled out,
And abscesses can piss off ‘cause they’re worse!
for Michelle
Even though it may seem like a good idea
at the time,
if you’re a poet, avoid making the rash promise
to a write a poem for someone,
no matter how highly you esteem them.
For a poet’s life is a cavalcade of infinite distractions:
the line of the hills;
the flight-path of a crow;
the mesmerising architecture of naked winter trees,
all viewed from the poet’s window.
But, the one thing I have learned from experience
is that I never learn from experience,
and I have long since known
that I am terrible at following
my own advice;
and thus, I made that promise.
Such a poetic promise is little more
than a testament to my consistent absent-mindedness
and my almost professional commitment
to mastering the art of procrastination.
A poem is a debt repaid
to the mysterious beauty of the imagination,
but this poem is the repayment a different debt:
the one which I owe to one of my cousins,
whose magical impulse
to take a DNA test
led to the discovery of my father,
my family, and myself and its Celtic soul.
A poem, I thought, in a moment of misplaced optimism,
a poem would be my best and only way
to balance this impossible debt –
even if only in part, even if unsuccessfully –
for this saviour who vanquished my ignorance,
and who replaced the awful abyss of not knowing
with the magnificent palace of perfect mirrors.
After staring out of my poet’s window,
misdirected from the pen and the word
by the artistry of the world outside,
with its hills and its birds and its trees,
I discovered that there were no words.
There were no words
to express this new yet timeless connection,
this unfamiliar, familial love,
the description of which falls beyond the scope
of any poet,
even one who was gifted the mirror in his soul,
by the cousin of all cousins,
who happens to be my cousin:
Michelle Niland-Sena.
