Not since 1982 did we experience this. Then, we were a young family with visitors and no electricity. We chatted wrapped in rugs before the fire in candlelight. In the night our two year old woke and would not sleep. When I went to see her, the reflection of a pillar of flame jumped out at me in a mirror on the stairs. Our piano was on fire. We were very lucky. The fire was dealt with quickly and apart from blackened walls the piano was the only thing damaged.
My Dad was a fine carpenter. He scoured for a piano lid that had the same curvature as our old one, rebuilt the front upright face and restored it beautifully. Mind you, it acquired a slightly mongrel look with the different woods but its fine sound and tone were unharmed. Years later, we passed it on to a local school and, as far as I know, it is still in use.
So we are confined now for a few days inside, four adults and two children. Thankfully no power outage and a plentiful supply of food. The events of thirty six years ago were reawakened and I was reminded of my Dad’s great gift and also my own family home, built by him in 1950. I had written a poem about it earlier this year. I think it apt to show it now.
In addition, I scribbled some lines reflecting a writers progress in the storm. Enjoy.
Memories from Childhood
In the garage of our then new house,
my dad made his workshop.
From an old solid door he created
a workbench with a large metal vice.
For years, this was my playground.
I steered liners with that tool,
hauled timber along the Zambezi,
drove trucks on highway 66.
The vice was a multifaceted toy.
It stood for whatever at the time
and was mine only, no one
in the house could come near.
Fifty years later, as we cleared it,
the bench and that great vice were
the last things to hit the skip,
a lifetime of work, of play scrapped.
Peter Clarke
January 2017
When Winter Really Came
A Seomra*, wooden
inside and out,
with a polystyrene layer
in between,
sits at the bottom
of the garden,
dislodged from
the house
by three days
of snow.
He writes
in there,
which means
he stares out
the window
at falling flakes,
walks around
the shelves
fingering spines,
tidies and enters
mountains of
receipts accumulated over
an extended period,
repeats these rounds,
leaves for coffee,
forcing his way
through ten paces
of blizzard.
As a poet
in the making,
he follows this
programme
assiduously,
three times daily.
Poetry in very
slow motion.
*Seomra is the Irish for room.
Peter Clarke
2nd March 2018
Phil
09.03.2018 09:45
Thanks Peter. Both your topics very much on my own mind these days so really enjoyed the read.
Carol Masterson
07.03.2018 14:42
Delighted to receive this mail from Deirdre McTeigue. Would like to receive more from you.
ClĂodhna
05.03.2018 07:51
Love the pictures you paint with words and the emotions you evoke.
Latest comments
25.11 | 22:15
Grief is experience through the mundane. Simple but powerful. The accompanying image really compliments the poem.
07.11 | 11:14
Hi Peter,
A great observation! Social media can be a scary place... I also need to reduce my time there
Hugs,
John.x
06.11 | 16:24
A great one, Peter, in the context you describe. I don't read social media myself, I doubt my equilibrium could stand it. 'The balance of his mind disturbed' yes, I think it would be.
06.11 | 15:59
Yes, gossip is a weapon of mass destruction.
In my business as well as personal life I have zero tolerance.