My Tragic Sense of Life

I get a sepia-tinted sadness just
from recalling an old photograph
of my parents on honeymoon,
posed by the seafront railings
in Douglas, Isle of Mann, with
a solid Irish Sea for backdrop.

And so, the sadness builds -
it was over ninety years ago,
throw in all that's gone, all those
inter-war art deco revolutions
round the sun, and throw in
the photographer - he's gone too,

after permanently fixing their happy
embarking-on-life-together smiles,
but taking their luminosity of spirit
away with him in his hooded camera -
no wonder they could never change
their stoic Edwardian mind-set;

or so it seems to me, raised with
their best, but undemonstrative, care.

                    ***

 

 

 

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

Those sepia photographs have a habit of stirring the emotions in us don't they Gerald? I wonder what the Edwardians would think of us today? They were the stiff upper lip brigade, kept their emotions in a straight jacket. We lead very different lives now. We are more open about everything. Far more touchy feely for sure. While I was reading your poem, I thought about my own Grandmother Eva. I loved her so much and I know she loved me, by the time she gave me and what she did for me, but there was not alot of hugging and kissing going on there. I remember that because I am so different with my own grandchildren. Your lines made me reflect and I was thankful for the memories you brought to me.

Chris

[Gerald Parker]

My parents, born before WW1, were already quite old when they had me. With my sister being 11 years older, I''ve always thought I must have been an accident in the air-raid shelter! I never knew my grandparents. They'd either died before I was born or were about to.

Thanks for commenting, Chris.

[Chris Shaw]

I think that idea of the air-raid shelter is rather nice. Hang on to that one. Clinging to each other for comfort while the bombs dropped. I have to say, there's a great deal of sense in that. Chris

[Eilis]

Not to correct your work in any way, but when I first read this, I read the last line as: their best, most undemonstrative care.

I know that changes the meaning a little but it felt natural in my mind when paired with the rest of the poem. The tragic sense.

It seems like every generation gets closer to a place where familial expressions of love are more acceptable. I know it has been tough for many generations of children because their parents believed it best not to spoil the child with love. It’s hard to say what’s best. When we look at the way the world is going now I’m not sure expressions of parental love are the crux of what makes a thriving society. Many young people are riddled with anxiety and other mental health issues and I think we’re at the height of the acceptability (indeed expectation) of parent/child connection. At least in America that is my impression.

Sorry for that digression. Your poem just made me think of that. I could appreciate the expression of the past being always part of our present but at the same time unreachable. As long as we are alive we find ourselves captivated by things or people we remember but we have no real way of connecting. Death and loss seem to play a larger role than many things and it seems we never quite find the way to come to terms with it.

A poignant poem, Gerald. I have many photos of my own family that make me similarly thoughtful, but nothing comes of it. That’s sort of the feeling I take away after reading the poem. Great work here.

Love that Heaney poem you have on your profile, by the way. One of my favorites of his.

[Gerald Parker]

Many thanks, Eilis, for your insightful comments about family relationships. I often think of the many ways my parents could have done more for me and with me. I would perhaps have been a more rounded and outgoing character. I don't blame them - i don't think it would have occurred to them to act any differently. This poem was only written yesterday and I'm not sure if I'm completely happy with it. I'll give it some time. The Heaney poem is one of my favourites of all poetry - a standard to aim at.

[Eilis]

You’re welcome, Gerald. I agree, Heaney’s poem is definitely a standard I aim for. Not sure I’ll ever get there, but I’m trying. All the best