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