May 2012
My dad was not without love,
but a cliched Irish *******
when he wanted to be.
Drinker, brawler,
all that stuff.
Never shed a tear,
saw weakness everywhere.
But he had this thing for poems,
poetry;
reading them, quoting them.
Probably thought it rounded him off,
ya know?
His way of apologizing,
I guess.
And there was one
that hung over the desk in his den.
It was only when I was a lot older,
I realized he had written it.
It was untitled,
four lines.
I read it at his funeral.
'Once more into the fray
Into the last good fight I'll ever know
Live and die on this day
Live and die on this day'
but a cliched Irish *******
when he wanted to be.
Drinker, brawler,
all that stuff.
Never shed a tear,
saw weakness everywhere.
But he had this thing for poems,
poetry;
reading them, quoting them.
Probably thought it rounded him off,
ya know?
His way of apologizing,
I guess.
And there was one
that hung over the desk in his den.
It was only when I was a lot older,
I realized he had written it.
It was untitled,
four lines.
I read it at his funeral.
'Once more into the fray
Into the last good fight I'll ever know
Live and die on this day
Live and die on this day'
This is a found poem, from the movie The Gray. For reasons I will not share, this part of the film, where Ottway and the others are gathered around a fire, talking about what keeps them going, really spoke volumes to me, and Ottways description of his father and his fathers affinity for poetry seemed very poetic in itself, so I decided to capture it.
