Holt's Field, Liverpool, 1950

Holt's Field, Liverpool, 1950

My father is holding bonnie blond me at arm's length
on his bony knee; the trees of Sudley burgeon beyond
the shine of his Brilliantined hair; behind me,
the tower of Mossley Hill church looms; I look
at the lens puzzled or crying. I reach out
to my mother, who holds the box camera; the grass
needs a mow. My father's iron grip holds my wrist.

Christopher T. George

Not a great reproduction of the B&W picture, my digital copying skills lacking, but you can see this photograph at http://www.flickr.com/photo_zoom.gne...7106004&size=l

Chris, I've just added you to my Flickr contacts :) Good stuff mate :PDT_Piratz_26:

Thanks, Kev. :celb (23):

Chris

Here's a revision of the same poem:

Holt's Field, Liverpool, 1950

Daddy balances bonnie blond me at arm's length
on his bony knee; uphill, the trees of Sudley burgeon

beyond the shine of his Brilliantined hair; he's an ex-
sailor, a demobbed RAF physio. Behind my blurred

face looms the tower of Mossley Hill church.
Confused and crying, I reach out

to Mummy, who points the box camera; the grass
needs a mow. My father's iron grip holds my wrist.

Christopher T. George

I prefer the first version.

'Daddy' and 'Mummy' don't scan for me, just a touch too much of the syrup spoon.

For me these terms detract from the ambivalence of our first relationships. Arm's length, confused and crying, iron grip.

Too much info about 'daddy' in the second? (Ideal, however, for family and friends who may need to know that he was a physiotherapist). Like the shine of his Brilliantined hair in both.

Smell?

Hi Jericho

Thanks for your thoughtful comments. A version between the two may be needed.

Chris

Little Man, First Snow

I'm driving down St. Paul in a slushy snow
in precarious February to fix my Mom's TV,
it being Oscar Night and she says it's dead;

near 23rd Street I see a flash on the sidewalk,
as a Dad immortalizes a snowsuited toddler
and Mom steadies her bobbling kid in the snow.

I think of the poem I wrote about Dad holding
me at Holt's Field on his bony knee, wonder
why I didn't share the poem with my

eighty-six-year-old Mom. I park in the snow-filled
lot by her high rise. It helps to turn the TV on!
I think of the power blackout between Dad and me.

Christopher T. George

A schizophrenic poem this perhaps, melding my two cities:
Liverpool where I grew up and Baltimore where I live now.