Harry White - Polite Forms

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A Carysfort Press Bok in association with Peter Lang Harry White Polite Forms First published in Ireland in 2012 as a paperback original by Carysfort Press, 58 Woodfield, Scholarstown Road Dublin 1 16, Ireland ISBN 978-1-78997-068-5 Harry White 2012 Typeset by Carysfort P Press Cover design by Brian OConnor This book is published with the financial assistance of The Arts Council (An Chomhairle E Ealaon) Dublin, Ireland Caution: : All rights res served. No par rt of this book may be print ed or reproduced or utilize ed in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented including photocopying and recording, or in a any information storage or retrieval system without permission in writing from the publishers. For Fiachra and Dara P OLITE F ORMS

xii | 1

Polite Forms

In the sixties, it was always Mrs White And Mrs Lyons behind the garden walls. For years, until the hearse, it stayed that way. Those conversations, lengthening in the halls, Would deepen into love but never stray Beyond the married surname. Then one day My mother called her Rachel, just like that, And Sheila, she replied.

At once they knew A girlish repossession of their own, Distinct from those brisk husbands on the phone Who frowned at this familiar pride in names, Or felt the tug of liberation games, But never saw it coming, soft as air: The end of married servitude was there.

1 | 2

The Hairpiece

I loved my father, worshipped him, in truth. He bounded down to breakfast one fine day, His mouth, his slender hands, his sixties suit, All as they had been from the start. Dismay And giggles spread along the table: we Took in his vanished dome, and in its place A jet-black, stiff toupe. Then suddenly He smiled and we all quizzed him, searched his face For answers. There were none.

Week after week, The reassuring roughness of his cheek Against my lips in greetings we exchanged Persuaded me that nothing much had changed. In all, there were six of us whom he sired: The hairpiece was removed when he retired.

2 | 3

Nana

Percussive, brisk, a two-step call to order, A chilly, regal, best-behaviour word, Nana brooked no grandmaternal nonsense, No hidden sweets. No refuge was implied. Instead, it summoned priest-enriched obedience, Her missal armed with penances and prayers, Her stern and stylish rectitude; her sense That being loved came best by being feared. Other peoples grandmas were indulgent, Burbling sloppy promises, never kept, While Nana ruled in fox furs: groomed, refulgent, Widowed, vigilant, vehement, correct.

Raised in Chester, she retained through life An English accent that cut like a knife.

3 | 4

Expedience

In May of 1963, my father Dashed into town to see his new-born son While Nana kept us on our toes at home. We twins were good as gold, but our young brother Enraged her when he answered back: the one Unpardonable crime. But there was worse to come. How dare you call me pig?! was her shrill cry, A sin which he has steadily denied For over forty years now. All the same, He got the strap next day.

I still feel shame At siding with her version of events When asked if Id confirm what he had said. I knew it wasnt pig- that made no sense But let him take her wrath, and crept to bed.

4 | 5

Box Three, Spool Five

When I rewind the tapes of childhood now, The curt intrusions of my fathers grammar, Correcting almost everything we said, Have in the intervening years somehow Become distortions. Why he had to tamper With our tender syntax, while he led Us safely, carefully home, I cannot guess, Or parsed our small affections. Nevertheless, I dont resent this grammar-laden life, However much his tense, imperfect rule Of obstinate corrections spoils the trove Of childhood memories. That is why this spool, This tape itself is precious.

Loud and clear, Beneath the surface noise, his love is there.

5 | 6

Writing

My first idea of writing came from him: Be quiet, boys, your fathers doing his writing . The dining room a haven, hushed and formal, A massive order-book and fountain pen, The flourish of his signature. And then The rite was over. Hed resume his normal Self a salesman, someone less exciting Than the artist Id imagined. But within The folds of this remembrance something serves To usher in the moment I was smitten: The dishes done, the kids in bed/ My nerves All jangling in my head , my mum had written, In slanting, wispy blue.

This fragile verse Eclipsed my fathers writing nonetheless.

6 | 7

Proper Nouns

Grundig , Acromycin , Scraddy-um Meant tape-recorder, doctor, growing pains, The private lexicon of family life: Wed ask when will the Acromycin come? Tell him I cant breathe! Or infant games, When Scraddy-um! meant jubilant respite From tension in our fingers when we squeezed them, As if those made-up words themselves could ease them. But Grundig meant the ghosts in our machine That stored the voice of relatives never seen From Canada, from the grave, from yesterday: The outer reaches of our Milky Way. Those spirit voices sang with stranger sounds Than the music we invented. Proper nouns.

7 | 8

Strictly Private

Like an old radio, the memory, warming up, Comes alive to dormant, family phrases Unspoken now for decades, like the wireless , Or private, uncollected nouns like Gup , That narrow-mouthed block of sound so tireless In fending off affection.

There are places The heart reserves for childhood: not for this. If I asked you what Gup meant, youd never guess. But still, it was as real as any word Collected in the dictionaries, heard And used and felt a hundred times a day. Now it sleeps, as words sleep, like the dead, Its meaning decent by being left unsaid. Did it render love? I cannot say.

8 | 9

Pray for the Wanderer

Graces, salutations, Marian tropes We patiently recited day and night.

A blend of high-toned syntax, childlike hopes: Hail, Holy Queen, To Thee do we cry, To Thee do we send up our sizes, morning and evening (No mourning, no weeping, no sighs in our valley of tears). We adapted those woeful laments to a prayer more in keeping With the world as we knew it, remote from such grandiose cares. But not remote from Heaven: we all felt The absolute proximity of that place To every pulse and doubtful thought which dwelt Within our secret selves. What child could face That undiscovered country without prayer Or fail to pray for the wanderer who went there?

9 | 10

Vestments

My copes and chasubles, silken stoles and furs, My surplices edged with lace, were made of sheets And tea-towels. In my chaste composure, pure Imagination consecrated sweets In a ciborium made of precious gold Or yellow plastic I was seven years old. I loved, with sensual sureness, Gods great power, His feminine compensations.

This turned sour When Christmas came and Santa raised his head: Id asked for real vestments, but instead I got a policemans outfit. Priest and Police My parents said, he must have been confused. I prudently agreed, but disabused Of God and Santa both, my masses ceased.

10 | 11

Dead Languages

The tide of Latin ebbed against my boyhood, I loved its purple ceremony of sound. You must bend down like mice , the teacher told us, And beat your breast like so , eyes to the ground. We learnt the rite by ear and loose translation, But chiefly through its pulse and musical curve Acquired by means of English simulations In which the sound and not the sense would serve: Mea maxima culpa was Im a Mexican cowboy, Which made us laugh, but drove the rhythm home.

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