Snapshots
By Robert McDermott
In early August of 1978 I am sitting in my dad's car with my mother,
we are bringing home my new brother,
I tell her I don't like him and ask her to get a different one.
In May of 1992 the phone rings at 2a.m. My mother answers it,
through the haze of sleep I know my Grandfather is dead.
In April of 2001 me and the guys dress up as Britney,
We do a routine to 'Hit me Baby',
It brought the house down.
In March of 1991 I kiss Gillian Graves,
it is the best day of my life,
last I heard she was living in London.
In September of 1980 I hit my head in a car accident,
They think I might die,
I pull through 3 days later.
In September of 1985 I go to boarding school,
I feel left out and unloved,
now I'm a teacher.
In August of 2003 I listen to Rhapsody in Blue with Audrey
while sitting on the balcony at Bricoste,
the French sun sinking behind the trees.
In Early August of 1975 my father takes a small box out of his car,
it contains my brother,
he puts it in the cold earth- no other family member attends.
Wood Carving
As summer took its final breath
speckled thrushes scratched bark on browning trees,
leaves curled in the face of time
and I carved wood in a dusty workshop-
The soft earth I stood on
brittled
by so many hours and days and years,
yielded under my weight.
I thought of the farmhouse,
its aged body crumbling but proud.
With this memory I worked the chisel
into the hard wood,
Every detail I could evoke
revealed itself from the grain-
I sanded and smoothed,
finished as best I knew
then took the varnished piece as it glistened like a chestnut,
into the falling orange sun.
Thrushes tucked their heads
into their chests,
in the distance the forest hummed,
love set its veneer.
Design
The philosophers knew the cold was real
and faced with this understanding
chose to see it for what it was-
The priests sought remedies-
The faithful turned to prayer-
The righteous to justice-
I visited Dachau three times-
Belsen and Auschwitz once-
I saw no remedies-
no prayers-
no justice-
If they have made it to paradise,
the dead souls of this rage
have every right to tell God,
that such hatred for the world
cannot be changed through prayer,
nor eased by justice-
And in reply he might tell the truth
before falling silent,
He might say that this was not what he had planned,
but was powerless to change.
Autumn
Your fingertips caressed the grass
as Chester snuffled in the earth
for crickets and butterflies.
I wandered behind your dream
lost in the scent of elderflower
and the carefree glint of your hair-
The smooth music of the wind
gently ruffling the freedom of August,
swept through our idle leisure.
I could do nothing but watch
as you sank into the valley,
leaving me to the warm sun.
What had taken you into the day
as you became the endless moment
your gold hair met the earth?
Was it my words, or the
sweet rush of being silent in
the final days of summer?
I had no answer, only
swirls of colour and the fervent
scratching of Chester seeking insects
Robert McDermott is a schoolteacher in Dublin and he writes when he can, though sometimes the writing finds me rather than he finds it. Or so he says.
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