That Christmas, at Trace Road,
father bought me a harmonica,
all of three octaves, at age three,
I blew, "phaw phoo phaw phee, phaw phoo phaw phee",
in and out, in and out, with joyful, incessant
annoyance of a mosquito until I saw
an older boy pass by with one, shorter,
and without the cover, silver reeds
exposed and looking prettier.
He too blew, "phaw phoo phaw phee, phaw phoo phaw phee".
Out of curiosity, like firewood or a tree,
I took the yard-axe to my harmonica
to see what lay beneath (the sight was
not so pretty nor so neat). My father stood there,
tall and lanky, said nothing, watched me,
a stoic and rueful sadness in his eyes.
The next year, at Parrot Hall,
father bought me a banana,
a little red banana, all of one octave, mouth organ.
I blew, "phaw phoo phaw phee, phaw phoo phaw phee",
in and out, in and out, with joyful, incessant
annoyance of a mosquito until I saw
and heard Sammy walking down the road,
silver harmonica, shorter than the one
I smashed asunder the year before, blowing
an angelic melody, "While shepherds watched
their flocks by night" the carol went, and it dawned
on me this organ was a thing of beauty beyond
its cover or reedy interior. Immediately, I blew
"While shepherds watched..." and every other
carol or song I knew, no mistakes, perfection,
except for the frustration of the missing
sharps and flats.
One year, father and friends butchered a squealing pig,
stabbed and slit blood-spurting throat, with a big
sharp knife, scraped the skin in boiling water,
cooked stew pork and flour dumplings
big and flat and round as cartwheels, sat, played
all-fours, ate their bellies full and nailed
the rest of dumplings like crucifixes
to a wall. I remember my father scraping
a big, musky-smelling smoked ham,
placing it in a big oil tin on three stones,
with firewood, boiling on an outdoor fire.
(My mother was SDA)
Ah the smell was so exciting!
I remember the deceptive mountain dew
he would brew that looked innocent like water
but smelled like cacapoo
and, overdrank, could burn away your liver.
Father made me drink my first drink
of whiskey for the worms residing in my belly.
Somewhere between whiskey and worms,
his favourite son cleared the contents of his stomach
all over his father’s pillow, causing consternation
and chaos that Christmas.
My father was no Dorian, no frozen picture
of youthful beauty and perfection, but a giant
to a child who, when ill or weary, would piggy-back
on his shoulder.
When father passed, I was only twelve, I think.
Memories like these,
(fond, and not so fond),
his name/my name
and some chromosomes,
are the only photos I possess
of Pappy.
©2012 by G. Newton V. Chance
- G. NEWTON V. CHANCE
- George Newton Vivian Chance (Trinidad and Tobago) -- member of the Poet Society of Trinidad and Tobago, http://poetssocietytt.blogspot.com/ and the World Poets Society, http://world-poets.blogspot.com/ -- born in Tobago on 3rd March 1957. While residing at Rio Claro was inspired to write over a hundred poems at the turn of the Millennium. Hobbies include playing wind instruments, building computers, observing nature, reading and writing poetry. Believes that the power of a song is in its ability to evoke emotions by the marriage of lyric and music but that music without lyric can be just as powerful, that lyric without music can also be just as powerful, that there is music in the lyric and that lyric can be simple yet profound. Also, in this the age of computers, would like to model his lines after simple and efficient code and, analogous to Object Oriented Programming, achieve most of his imagery from nouns and verbs, avoiding the bloat and excess of unnecessary adjectives. This is what he aspires to attain in his poetry.
