The Last Twisted Window

My father was perhaps the most creative person I've ever known, dead now these last 10 years. He painted, and sculpted wood, for the most part, and for all the works he finished, I have only a few, including one painting now hanging on my wall. The greatest suprise about this painting is the poem on its back... a surprise because to my knowledge, it's the only poem he ever wrote. It's a bizzare little thing, and the more I read it it's as though it's meaning shines clearer and clearer, yet never clear enough that I can pin it's message down. Perhaps this is the mark of a good poet; the ability to say, in as few words as possible, something so profound it haunts you to the end of your days. The Japanese haiku is very much like this....

Night is held at bay
As fireflies light our path
Hands clasped our hearts race

...in that the whole of idea of 'less being more' is firmly illustrated. But too little, I feel, sometimes leaves too much unsaid. Brevity has its time and place, but what if the vision you have is far too wide a vista for a mere 17 syllables?

It would seem my father questioned his own life, every bit as much as I do mine, perhaps more. Here is his bizzare little poem...

In the tangled clutches
Of shallow dimensions,
A regreening juts up
From the weeds of dissention
And bids me go into
The last twisted window

Leave the old hackneyed script.
Leave it there with your shield,
Plastic facade, now stripped.
Your body's wounds are healed.
Follow your mind into
The last twisted window

D. Ashley, circa 1982

When he died, it was... unnecessary. He simply waited too long to seek help. We buried him on the top of a mountain in West Virgina, with the sound of crying and the wail of bagpipes... years later I wrote a poem for this. Had to. Not like I had much choice in the matter, and though I thought getting it down on paper would ease some of the pain, it hasn't one iota.

The pipes came from a song by Enya, "The Sun in the Stream," and from the liner notes I took my inspiration, and asked my own question.

"Hazels and Salmon"

Pink and crimson armoured true,
Basking in the light of filtered sun and
Caressed by the cool flowing Boyne,
From the sacred pool whence nine hazels drew
All the cares and truth of the world.
Sealing them in their crimson nuts,
Dropping them in season
To 'plash 'neath cool waters
Where feeds the Salmon of Knowledge,
Pink and crimson armoured true,
Upon the cares and wisdom of the world

What echoes hath thou heard?
What pipes calling 'cross mountains cold
In mourning and loss?
Having eaten thy fill on knowledge rich,
What comfort to me canst thou give
And so ease my heart?
What light dapp'ling, what textures known
To thee in thy sacred pool,
While feasting on the food of gods,
Might utter to me one word of hope;
For father and son together once more?

Began late 1997
Finished on one restless night,
092199.0313.1