Vox Populi
A curated webspace for Poetry, Politics, and Nature with over 20,000 daily subscribers and over 8,000 archived posts.
Fred Johnston: Ark
For what I did
And did not do . . . .
-Samuel Menashe: Rue
My father went looking for work
When he was gone my mother and I took a ‘bus long and hot
Over the centre of her home town and up alongside the railway
To some other place near a park
Then got off the ‘bus and walked
Up streets of green-black hedges, hidden dogs, quiet houses
With no one around, just the two of us, feet slapping and tapping
The pavement and neither talked
The streets sucked up sound like a vacuum-
Cleaner. We came to a corner house with a tree in the front garden
I was thirsty but said nothing. It was like going to Mass, is how
It felt. Mute in a loud empty room.
My mother embraced the older woman who stood
In the doorway, like two good friends, two pages closing together
We went upstairs to a room with a bed and wardrobe, a cool chamber
A framed Sacred Heart with painted blood.
She leaned in, my mother, and felt the sleeve
First, then the shoulders, but she left it on its hanger in its own dark
Closed the door as if it were a sacred ark of rules the light might wither
Something I knew she would look at and leave
Just where it was. I don’t know how I knew
That, just as I knew the ritual was holy to her and a deep, deep secret
Not to be spoken about for fear of a tremble in the roof or God’s deluge –
She never went back. Or didn’t need to.
Copyright 2024 Fred Johnston
Fred Johnston (born 1951) is an Irish poet, novelist, literary critic and musician. He is the founder and director of the Western Writers’ Centre in Galway. He co-founded the Irish Writers’ Co-operative in 1974, as well as Galway’s annual Cúirt International Festival of Literature in 1986. His many books include Rogue States (Salmon Poetry, 2019).
Discover more from Vox Populi
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Mysterious and wonderful.
He’s such a fine poet.
Thankyou.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Fred really is a fine poet, very subtle mood and music.
>
LikeLiked by 1 person
Made me remember my mother taking me by the hand after the war and going to some ‘official place’, a school perhaps, where they displayed lists of those who had been reported missing. I think they confirmed either death or new whereabouts. My mother looked for the name of a man I had never heard of. What an intriguing poem.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Very moving. Thanks, Rose Mary.
>
LikeLike
Holy moly, such a deep and quiet poem, full of weight and secrecy. Wow.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes, wow.
>
LikeLiked by 1 person
This poem makes me think of something Charles Simic once said: “Poetry is the orphan of silence”…
LikeLiked by 2 people
Perfect!
>
LikeLike
Yes!
LikeLike
In the beginning is the original mystery of why the father leaving to look for work sets the mother and child onto a pilgrimage The meeting of the two women at the destination is like two pages closing, hence dark and unreadable. The closet as the ark of touching or feeling–
Amazing poem, amazing story. Many poetry readers love a mystery, but especially one we cannot solve, but love to try
Thanks
LikeLiked by 1 person
She never went back. Or didn’t need to.
The mystery and the clarity of this. Such a beautiful, strong poem.
Thank you!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I agree, Noelle. A mysterious powerful poem.
>
LikeLike
o, beautiful ! and the many images, each..this one, an extra oh!
“Closed the door as if it were a sacred ark of rules the light might wither”
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes, it is.
>
LikeLike