mentalelf. Philk.

My Granddad.

by mentalelf. Philk.

Thursday 12th May 2016 10:46 am (first posted Wednesday 11th May 2016 8:34 pm)

Granddad 1930

Granddad

Grand lad

Blanket row

to

East Yorkshire

Regiment

Battle garland

“Oppy wood”

18 yrs old

Covered in mud

Killing and dying

Mired in blood

Lived to

Be broken

Lived to be token

Of the man who

Left grandma’s house.

Became fist fighter

Became bare knuckle

Fighter

Champion

Drunkard

Champion of

Old Hull

With his

naked fists

Every Sunday

After church

Before the pub

Investigated for

Murder

With a bayonet

Beat grandma

After every session

To teach her

A lesson

Only he knew

He died young

Head damaged

Body ravaged

And grandma

With a legacy

Of seven mouths

And knees bent

To parish

Said….

“I’ll never have

Another man

Even if he has

Diamonds coming out

Of his arse”!

Granddad WW1

◄ Tears tears and love.

Only Words. ►

Comments

Laura Taylor

Fri 13th May 2016 09:46

The last part you've added seriously ups the game of this poem Phil, glad you made the effort. Absolutely spot on.

Laura Taylor

Thu 12th May 2016 09:36

Great poem. The subject and the composition. I bet this would perform really well - the rhythm is excellent, with deft touches of rhyme.

Also, clearly an emotive piece, recalling the nature of relationships under massive pressure and trauma. That last verse - I can imagine many an old woman from my home place uttering those words.

To teach her
A lesson
Only he knew

Aye, and one of my grandads too.

elPintor

Thu 12th May 2016 01:21

I'm reminded of the theme of loss which occurs when one suffers such violent indignities. I mean, when I read the first verse, it is apparent. And, there is the cycle of abuse.

It is the fragility of our own humanity, I would say.

I sit here thinking about how hard it is to even comment on this. And, then I think of how it must be to talk about this for anyone with firsthand experience. For the people who live through things like this and for those who love them and witness what they go through. It seems curious to me that society has romanticized (at least at one time) a culture of silence surrounding matters of "doing one's duty". Yet, this very condition of silence all but ensures the continuation of a cycle of violence that needs to be broken for the sake of all involved.

But, poems like this shed much needed light on these matters.

elPintor

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