Poem 291
Written in 2010 as I was creating work for White Cloud but not ultimately included in the show this is a companion piece to Poem 205 … whereas 21 was the house I grew up in, 48 Carnell St Napier (always referred to just by its number) was home to a generation of the Evans family on my mother’s side …
( I like the pleasant melancholy of this, the undersea light of the bedroom, and image of passing out of one silence into another … )
48
My grandfather was buried on the day I was born so by the time I knew 48 it was a house of two old women Nana with her powdery whiskery chin cigarettes and Best Bets and great aunt Mary 1969 the world gripped by sensation Nana wrote Mary a note man has landed on the moon Aunt Mary read and rocked laughing I’ve heard stories like that before deaf all her life she reminded me of a chimpanzee impossibly small and bent and perched in her green chair in the corner on our visits Nana would shout who we were Aunt Mary smiled and nodded eyes bright but you never knew what she really understood she had not been of the world outside her deafness for something like an age I was terrified to be alone with her but one day she started to teach me sign language vowels on the fingers of the left hand A E I O U H like this one palm sweeping off the other she was going to teach me more tomorrow something happened or it was a day she didn’t come out of her mysterious bedroom its undersea light through net curtains glimpsed once eventually (for her) quite soon for me the green chair sat empty and Aunt Mary passed out of one silence into another except I’m told deaf people hear all kinds of things rushings and roarings voices from the past who knows? no one now a e i o u h like this