After Reading Thomas Hood's Poem on the London Underground

I remember, yes, I too remember 
the house where I was born, 
and the only photograph I remember 
is the one I do not have
of the front, taken before the war 
which commandeered for bombs 
the railings and the wrought-iron gate.

I remember the jagged stumps, 
and the missing gate, like a loss of face;
the absurdity of the cloche hats,
my mother sadly smiling sadly,
my kind aunt, no kids to spoil
and a suicide plan for retirement,
who kindly spoilt me sick with plums.

I remember the dining-room, 
agony of long evenings, wind howling 
under floor-boards, lino lifting,
reek of smoke gassing the air,
the Bakelite wireless in the corner, 
wheezing and spluttering in and out of life,
my father causing friction twiddling dials.

I remember the air-raid shelter
my parents shared with old Mrs Weaver
till the last all-clear, the cat that sulked
in the cherry-tree if left for a day;
flour-faced Mrs Weaver, my first death at eight;
the cat at ten, just a whiff of gas,
after his trouble in the coal-shed.

I remember the landing,
where I stood and it was always cold,
and I’d call that I couldn’t sleep,
as they niggled away downstairs,
the one coal fire petering out,
a smouldering rumble of a row
she would miss when he’d gone.

I remember the front room, 
conserved for special occasions and never used,
icy as a monk’s cell, my Meccano retreat.
I google and see new railings, a new gate -
imagine phantoms gliding from room to room,
trampling over the boy on the landing
as they traipse through the man on the train.

.

Reviews

[Eilis]

I went and found the Thomas Hood poem I Remember, I Remember. I thought it might be a challenge to figure out which poem the title referred to but it was fairly easy to locate with a Google search. I really like the way your poem speaks to that poem sort of like a postmodern speaking to void. I’m not saying that was your intention, but the multi-layered experiences expressed in your poem are a stark difference to Hood’s points of reference.

I don’t think a knowledge of the Hood poem is necessary for this one to make sense though. As a poem in response to something else should be it is an independent work with a fixed source of inspiration. But, I find your poem has more depth, or rather a different kind of depth. Where Hood’s felt spiritual yours reminded me of the anxiety of life in the twentieth century onward and how that has defined a lot of human experience and perception. The loom of war and how everything after is colored by that feels particularly important here.

But, what I really liked was how the ending reminds us of the transience of even those experiences that have completely altered western civilization. The war has passed. The boy has grown up, and what the adult discovers is that all he remembers has been made new.

But the ghost of all those memories have left their own mark. I really enjoyed that ending. Gave me chills when I first read it.

By the way, I saw at one point you were having trouble with receiving too many read requests. If you go into account settings you can actually turn those off. I have mine turned off. And I don’t receive any.

Really enjoyed this poem, Gerald.

[Gerald Parker]

Thank you for your comment, Eilis. I don't think this poem was ever on the Underground but it provided a way of creating the ending I wanted. It is one of two poems I have written about poems on the Underground that weren't actually there. Thanks for the tip about the requests.

[Gerald Parker]

I should have added that the other poem is "Cassie reads Ode to Cassandra ......" in which I attempt to fault Ronsard's poem.

[Eilis]

Ok, thanks Gerald. I will read that one too.