A Poem on Departure

This free verse poem, written in the form of a letter to my unborn son, explores my feelings of loss and loneliness when my pregnant wife and young son returned to the UK in readiness for our new arrival.

Listen to: A Poem on Departure

Dear Thomas,

I should be used to being alone.
My life has always been one of departures,
but they’ve been my leavings;
I have left others behind, and not always returned.

Now I’ve arrived home,
after taking your mother and brother
to Jackson’s Airport, where for the first time
it was I who was left behind.

The airport was alive with raucous travellers
and their wantoks, jostling and shoving through the crowd,
with bulging bilums and striped nylon bags,
and piglets squealing in woven grass cages.

We entered the dilapidated terminal,
where the babbling voices of the nervous crowd
filled the departure hall,
overwhelming the tannoy calling the flights in Tok Pisin,

Women in meri-blouses and men in lap-laps
exuded a fug of sour body odour and sweet buai,
that engulfed us and fed Mummy’s growing apprehension
at the bustling mob.

On the grubby terminal wall
the ancient departure board flap-flapped
with the changing status of flights,
every flick of its letters brought us closer to ‘goodbye’.

I kissed James, imploring him to be a good boy,
and carried him towards the security desk,
I gave Mummy advice that she didn’t need;
hugged and kissed her farewell,

The loneliness of being left behind 
seeped into my soul and hollowed out my resilience.
My eyes gleamed with unshed tears
as I watched them slowly pass through the gate.

Mummy turned to wave and then they were gone.

Now I’m home, the house echoes with emptiness;
silence waits for me in every room,
as welcome as an unwashed cup or plate,
or the remnants of broken toys.

Mummy has left me a meal in the fridge,
Jamie’s chatter still lingers in the air,
The security guard’s radio squawks and clicks
and I am alone, but for the gecko on the wall.

The ceiling fans disturb the humid air,
and the old refrigerator bubbles and hums,
at the sound of laughter and distant voices
while the gecko says nothing at all.

And yet you’re only now on the way;
I look from our balcony where
the sunlight is fading into evening,
and I watch the apricot sky as your balus passes overhead.

Now my loneliness chews at my mind, 
like the wild dogs at the bins,
and leaves my heart in shreds.
I wonder; did others feel this raw when I left them?
 
It never occurred to me to ask.

But then the exciting promise of your new life
emerges, shining like Sirius in the twilight.
You will soon join Mummy and James,
and how eagerly I look forward to that!

Your Daddy.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Portrait of a strangely-dressed man

Listen to: Portrait of a strangely-dressed man The range of jade-green peaks unfolded before me Towards a horizon shrouded by a curtain of haze. The mist caught the morning sun in a fleeting rainbow, To gild the stone village homes in the valley below. He emerged from the bush, shifting uncomfortably From one foot to another, brushing off some grass, Tugging at his cheap, unfamiliar polyester suit, Smoothing wrinkles, giving the lie to his anxiety. Beneath his straight dark hair, fear and uncertainty Clouded his pale, angular face. I greeted him, smiling; He bowed, uncomprehending and hesitant, incongruous In his dark suit, days-old white shirt and narrow black tie. He made a futile effort to clean his plastic ‘city’ shoes, Keeping his black briefcase beside him, like a child’s toy, Expectant, as if hoping to bag a seat on a crowded train. We stood staring at one another, neither posing a threat. I pointed to the sea and the mainland’s far distant hills, He smiled in guilt and waved a
Read more

A Guardian of Empire

Image
Listen to: A Guardian of Empire We must go to school somewhere, and mine was an idyllic island, of unbounded childhood joy. A bulwark of English tradition amidst the social upheaval, the anarchy, perhaps, of the ‘60s, with a progressive outlook, if one was of the Edwardian era, for it was a training ground for the Guardians of Empire. And I loved it. I was steeped in its timeless values:  of fair discipline,  academic excellence, and sporting prowess. Our gaggle of ancient and venerated teachers, all veterans of wars past, of Ypres and the Somme,  Normandy and the Yangtze Kiang, tried to shape my impressionable mind. They did better than my parents to foster my intellectual curiosity, my moral compass and a lifelong love  of literature, mathematics and science. They referred to me,  affectionately, I think, as ‘The Admiral.’ And I loved them. My memories resound with the boisterous laughter and chatter of young boys. We were constantly busy in a kaleidoscope of lessons,  games of crick
Read more

Portrait of a Shipowner

Listen to: Portrait of a Shipowner The old Greek added sugar to his cup and stirred, and tapped his spoon against the rim; his keen mind turning like the Cuban coffee that purled, fragrant, dark and rich before him. He'd lunched with English merchants who despised 'the Pleb from Chios', yet winced as he carved fine slices from the rump of their fleets, and devoured their post-war prosperity. He mused the English must be deluded, and sipped, in contemplation, from his cup. He pulled his last Karelia from the pack, thumbed his lighter, drew deeply and sighed. Their folly was their reliance on cargo to haul from port to port and ballast back; But the Greek used cargo to pay down loans, buy ships cheaply and sell them on the rise. They knew little of nothing, thought the Greek. He drained his cup and pushed his filter hard into the ashtray. He pitied the English, adrift like flotsam on an ebbing tide.
Read more