Stop all the clocks cut off the telephone
He was my North my South my East and West
My working week and my Sunday rest
These were the only lines of the Auden poem that I could clearly remember
Which is exceptionally poor as I consider myself a poet
My mother on the other hand could remember huge chunks
Of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam which she had learned before the war
Frequently I was teased by my mother about this but what I did not tell her
Was that I often read my own poems but could remember writing them
This said I have to date written over three thousand poems and fictions
So some vacancies should be expected especially as I live in small worlds
Illuminated only by the ghost lights which are hardly burning in the shadows by the exit door
My mother recognised this and said that real poets are aware of things so small
As to be insignificant to the average human eye
Poets often dream their poems during the long night hours
But have the ability to recall and record them in extreme detail
A discarded pencil in a gutter a used shopping list on a supermarket floor
These items and these thoughts are too numerous to record let alone count
My noon my midnight my talk my song
I have surprised myself as I have remembered another line
My mother smiles
It happens when I least expect it when I clear my mind
When I sort out the jumble of a jumbled jumble
Everything becomes clear so clear so very clear
I suggest that we should write a poem together
Starting at opposite sides of a circle and meeting somewhere near the centre
It would be fun as our styles differ radically
I do not have a style and remain a grasshopper as I have always have
My mother has a style a grand style as precise as a mathematical problem
We choose a subject something which she remembers fondly
Her school trip to Cliftonville in 1933
But then a nurse came into her room to change a dressing or something like
I waited in the hall staring at the October skies
Through a revival window now sheltered
When I returned my mother said that she was tired but we agreed that we would start the poem
On the Monday of the following week I would arrive promptly at twelve with a notebook and a pen
She however died at dawn on Saturday without issue without argument and without concern
She just faded into sleep
I did not see her after that
I could not physically do so
The unwritten shared poem would be our goodbye and nothing else
The stars are not wanted now put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun
Pour away the oceans and sweep up the wood
For nothing now can ever come to any good
I can remember poems
I was just kidding myself
I can remember my poems
I have remembered Audens poem
Anything else is a lie
My mother knew this
But did not let on
As she knew that I would
Discover this fact
Time and time and time again
As I composed
The Cliftonville Poem