Poetry

May 1999 found me in a strange place. My first wife and I had separated in July 1997, and after a six-month trial separation, we’d tried a trans-Atlantic reconciliation. Eighteen months later (nine good months, followed by nine absolutely hellish months), I decided enough was enough. Many of my poetry from that time is so full of pain and fear. This one is different, and I think it was more about the alternate reality that I so desperately wanted; one that years later, I was lucky to find.

My father celebrated his 68th birthday in Ashgate Hospice. He died 8 days later, after battling cancer for two and a half years. I wrote this on what would have been his 72nd birthday, and memories of that day came flooding back to me.

Poeterrorism was the name I coined (back before the horrors of 9/11 gave us all a different meaning for the word terrorist) for scribbling poetry into a journal, and then slipping it back on the shelf. I wondered what the unsuspecting buyer would make of it. Would they consider the journal ‘used’ and return it for a refund or exchange, or would the see the poem as a gift? As you could probably guess, I was the one who bought this particular journal.

My father was given 2 weeks to live, which turned into the gift of two and a half years. I turned my life upside down to spend as much time with him as I could, and this poem is about is final days and our last conversation.