Quite inappropriately, given the tenderness of the subject of your poem,
I'm, nevertheless, going to slash and burn, chisel and chop away at it.
Some stanzas, wholly, 'stood out' to me, whereas others didn't make it out
of the woodwork.
Doubtless I chopped too much, but I think poetry-readers---not unlike normal
human beings---do a good job, and rather enjoy, teasing out the magic.
Thanks for the beauty and soul in this poem, Max.
Best,
Judy
2008/9/23 Max Richards <[log in to unmask]>
A Signet Ring
>
> I breathed on it, recited
> his initials, pocketed
> it, flew to England
> fiddling with it
>
> I recall his hands lifting
> over the keyboard
> his piano an upright*
> ungainly oak box –
> a piece
> called 'Liebestraum', my first
> German word
>
> he dug for Victory – potatoes,
> in his Home Guard boots
>
> I sang
> 'I'm dreaming of a purple Christmas'
> Mother neither played nor sang,
> chuckled when asked to
>
> Winter that year
> in England was slow, numb, shrunken
>
> To Ireland then, for a wet week
> Donegal was wettest, well worth
> emigrating from, as my
> unremembered Grandad did
> 'She's passed away, we'll hold
> the funeral till you can get home'
>
> I buy some Chopin, the 'celebrant'
> turns it on, so quietly it might
> as well have been silence
> or
> sensed from a great distance
> or
> tapped on my knee by ringless fingers
> -----------------
>
> Wednesday 24 September 2008
>
> Max Richards
> Doncaster, Victoria
>
> *made in London, Ontario!
>
>
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>
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