sunk, there in the armchair,
and perplexing, your grey and balding head, as I
knowing your intellect and sitting opposite
sensed its emptiness, while you, stared and stared
at nothing in particular.
And how incongruous your impeccable dress,
as waist coated and in ignorance of me
you raised your glass, studied its impenetrable depth
and gulped it down: gulp, after gulp, after gulp.
"Here's to us! Who's like us?" was what you said,
before again lapsing into muteness.
And how through the evening and long night, hapless,
you shaped my soul. As I unfeeling, minded you,
and found in the pedimented sideboard,
life! and a crafted beauty that would endure.
While you, raising your glass yet again, said,
"Up the rebels!" with a vigour that made you sway in your chair
before looking at me quizzically and asking:
"Am ... I right! or ... am I wrong?"
And I, not knowing who the rebels were, but humouring you said:
"You're right!"
"Of course I'm right!" you blathered.
And how unfeeling my handshake, when clasping me,
you a comrade said:
"Put it there. It weighs a tonne!" and asked
with unstoppable drunken mischief:
"What ... weighs ... a tonne?"
How gallant and shrewd my reply.
"I don't know what it is that weighs a tonne
but whatever it is it weighs a tonne anyhow."
And how as the evening passed and the hearth was soiled
with dredged bottles, spittle, and spent matches;
and the air ran pungent with the smell of Stout,
you lapsed again and again into unconsciousness.
While I, vigilant, saved all of us
as your cigarette, silent, slipped to the carpet.
But how like a phoenix you rose defiant
and vitriol spewed out.
"Where's your mother?"
"I don't know where she is."
"I know where she is, the bitch! Oh ho, I know her form.
She's with Mr. Johnson!"
And how you bastardised all of us, and the song:
""At last at last you're in my arms.
You're in my arms where you should be.""
And metamorphosed the question:
"Am I right! or am I wrong?"
"Some people", you said,
think you're old Daddy's a fool, but I'm no fool!"
Thus reassured, and as a litany,
you denounced each of them in turn
and all of them, (male and female) were "bitches!
the whole bloody lot of them."
And how against every law,
you raised yourself from your chair,
and swaying through the room
pulled the tablecloth askew as you went,
while I, fearful, sat ready on the edge of my chair.
But how acceptable the sound, knowing that you had been driven
only to urinate in the pantry sink,
while I, scoured the walls and contours of the room
for yet more signs of things durable;
not knowing that you had planted in me,
seeds of a resentment, that years later, you
for all your intellect would fail to comprehend,
and about which, I would not draw breath to explain.
How I felt the full burden of my alonness,
not knowing where my family were, and certain
that the whole world, save you and I were asleep.
How oppressive the darkness through the high window
as I searched for life, for signs of hope; a greying frown,
proof that I was soon to be relieved of my burden.
But how like an ox, incredulous you were
when all was lost.
With arm set fair, your grey, spent, head,
studied, and studied, and studied, your watch
intent as you still were, on this, elixir of life.
Oblivious you were, of the cold,
of the marble and dead fireplace,
that earlier, in doing what it was supposed to do
glowed and danced in swirls of gold and purple.
"It's three o' clock," I said, helping the comprehension.
"There's no more drink!
All the Bars are closed!
Everyone is in bed asleep!"
"What ... time ... is it?" you drawled,
still bamboozled by your watch.
"It's a quarter past three!"
"A ... quarter ... past ... three?"
How especially dreary those moments
as I waited for your will to crumble.
But devious you were to the end.
"Where's ... Deirdre?"
"Deirdre's in bed asleep!"
"Go ... and ... tell her ... I ... want her."
"Deirdre's in bed asleep!
It's very late!
She has to be up for school in the morning!
Everyone is in bed asleep!"
How remarkable that school of applied psychology, as I,
a mere boy, battered you down with emphasis and repetition.
But more remarkable, nay, miraculous, is the truth,
that despite what had gone before, and would come after,
she, whom you defiled,
would, when the time came
wail at your passing.
_________
© Cormac McCloskey
I can't recall how many of these episodes I sat through. Probably not that many, because my father was a binge drinker. But as I recall them, episodes such as these, occurred in the winter months when we had no paying guests to stay. As I left home to attend St. Vincent's in 1954, I would have been eleven at most, and possibly younger. I was definitely at primary school, as was Deirdre, who is mentioned in the poem.
In respect of punctuation and phrasing, some minor changes have been made to this poem, but nothing has been added to, or taken away, from the original detail. Cormac, 16th February 2011
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