It Was The Worst Hour of My Life

It was the worst hour of my life,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

You'd just suffered a rectal exam,

I wish you'd been feeling stronger,

Your spirits were crushed, almost defeated,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

They assisted your toilet, I won't repeat it,

I wish my faith had been a little stronger,

Your virtual silence, the noise of 'your' machine,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

My awkwardness, won't you minister to me,

I wish my faith was a little stronger,

32 names, only yours stood out,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

I see in you the first seeds of doubt,

Maybe the roots grew a little deeper,

Cancer is the seasoning that brings out the taste for life,

The hill of faith got a gradient steeper,

In the car I cried to Springsteen when he sang of his wife,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

My fire's impotence in the face of the sun,

I wish my faith was a little stronger,

Your shallow breathing, I cling on to your thumb,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

'cos your drip's in the way, my dearest Mum,

Please, please, please, just a wee bit longer,

If I could I would fold your paper-like skin,

If only my faith had been a bit stronger,

And write on your page your best friends hymn,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

And fold you to an origami swan,

Oh my God just a little bit longer,

And set you free to flee like a bird from the coming storm,

Oh my God, just a little bit longer,

But we sit instead in silence,

Oh my Mother, just a little bit longer,

And awkwardly forgive each other's silence,

Oh Mum, won't you be a bit stronger,

And I can't fucking stand to see you this way,

But I wish I could see it for a little bit longer,

But now you are gone and I am sorry to say,

I know that I need to be stronger,

It was the worst hour of my life,

But I wish it had gone on a whole lot longer.

M. Joseph Burt   (20.8.5)



This poem was written just 3 weeks after my mother's death in 2005. She was just 56 years old and died 3 months after a cancer diagnosis. It was not the cancer that killed her but her death resulted from an embolism in her lung. She was on assisted breathing for the last weeks of her life and this was how she was existing at the time of the event described here in this rather raw poem, the last time I was to see her alive. 

I would happily retract the entire sentiment of the poem now, now enough distance has passed. If I had known the outcome was certain I wouldn't have wanted her to endure any of the indignity or suffering that she had to face. Given the nature of her condition, the speed was, in retrospect, something of a mercy to her. However at the time of writing this poem, in that exact moment, all I was aware of was that I would have given nearly anything to gain some of those extra moments with her, because even the awful moments felt better than the terrible and bleak prospect of no more moments.

I apologise for any offense caused by use of a particular Anglo-Saxon word, however It serves as a record of the rawness of that moment. 

God has bought me much comfort since, and the grief though not entirely gone (it will never go completely) is greatly, even mostly eased. Back then I wanted to cry and scream and howl and swear.

Poem Inside

I may be sh*t,

But there's a poem inside,

I may be beyond redemption,

But there's a poem,

A poem of pride,

I may be proud,

My neck may be stiff,

But there's a poem inside,

I can be spikey,

But there's a poem inside,

My heart under lock and key,

A place for my poem to  hide,

I bite your fingers before you get near me,

But there's a poem inside,

With toothmark scarred fingers,

You finally open me,

And read the poem inside,

It says;

I am quite scared,

And all alone,

And there is no place,

That I can call home,

And I am not worthy of love,

Not even from above,

Please,

Please,

Help,

I can scarcely manage,

A yelp,

As your scarred hands,

Start to gently cradle my heart,

It hurts to stand aside,

And let you read,

My poem inside.

M. Joseph Burt  (22.8.6)

The Golden Egg

White bread, Sunblest,

Stork margarine,

A thin blueish grey veil,

Of Rothmans smoke,

Hangs between us,

Formica table top,

With vinyl wood effect,

A plastic primary rouge tomato,

Gammy at the spout,

A thin arterial red vinegar,

Spurts out, over crinkle-cut chips,

You put one to your lips,

A solitary pallid, anaemic yolk,

On a crispy-edged speckled white,

Sidles suggestively up to a sausage,

You have tea for 1,

+1 hot chocolate,

We sip together,

All the Grannies and Nannas smoke and natter,

And smoke,

And chatter,

Like an arthritic birdsong,

Varicose,

Loud,

Business is booming,

At The Golden Egg,

In 84,

Before

The recession took its legs

And staggered into the town,

And our favourite haunt,

We had lantern traybake for afters,

A little laughter,

Something we shared,

At the Golden egg

M. Joseph Burt  (27.6.6)

Skinny Dip

Naked,

The amniotic sack of the sea,

All around me,

A vast womb,

And like a baby,

I am safe,

And free,

And I have room,

And space to be

M Joseph Burt   (27.6.6)

Stealing Woodbines And Sneaking Scrumpy

14

Stealing Woodbines,

From Gateway,

On holiday,

In Devon,

My parents pushing the trolley,

(And my siblings)

About,

The most daring of raids,

The boldest steal I ever made,

She's bent down checking stock,

My puffer-Jacketed arm,

Stretches illicitly into the kiosk,

In full view of anyone who would look,

The cigarettes,

which I can't see,

Ninety to forty-five degrees beyond vision,

Teeter at the tips of my fingers,,

I'm crapping myself,

On pure adrenaline now,

Clumsily I knock a pile over,

And one box of pure nicotine promise,

Finds it's way into my grasp,

My hand shoots back,

Recoils,

And in slow motion, it seems,

Some boxes fall to the floor,

Inadvertently creating a distraction,

As I thrust the box,

Into the stonewashed cargo trousers pocket,

Don't dare look,

And half run

To the safety of the toilets,

To inspect the spoils.

Incredibly, she never looked round.

Woodbines!

I had never before smoked a filterless fag,

I am so surprised I almost leave them there,

Dump them in the cistern,

But I am thrilled,

At my ill gotten gain,

And my daring,

Elated and guilty,

And only half ashamed,

So I keep them.

Spiting out course grains of tobacco,

Walking through the heather,

My brother and I hereafter,

The world is my oyster,

I have conquered the system,

I am high,

Until my brother says,

He will tell on me,

And I beg,

And cry,

And wail,

And throw my haul overboard

Privately returning and  searching later on,

To no avail,

And later still,

In the caravan,

Mum and dad sat outside,

Daniel in the awning,

I stealthily lift the seat to reveal,

The rusty brown bottle,

Of rat gut enhanced 

'Sillyider',

I see the cider,

I got high,

On a sip or two,

Not knowing, 

This was just a foretaste,

Of things to come,

I stand on the shore,

With my family,

While the surf,

Brings the foaming waters of adolescence,

Cascading over my green flash feet,

And the pull of the tide,

Of adult discovery,

Beckons,

Tempts seductively,

To pull me back with it,

To the tainted and altogether deeper waters of manhood,

With all its excitement,

And disappointment,

My heart is on the brink now,

But is in truth,

Already won,

Has crossed the line,

And innocence remains,

With Rachel,

And with Mum.

M. Joseph Burt   (26.6.6)

The Poems That Got Away

The hook of the metaphor,

Primed with the bait of melancholy,

Waits impatiently,

Amidst the waters of my mind,

Beneath the float of fantasy,

To catch the fish of inspiration,

If it bites,

the lines will come reeling off,

As I panic,

And spring to life,

And try to grab my rod,

In time,

Of all the poems that swam,

Down this lazy river,

The ones I never caught,

Were the biggest and the best,

The ones that nibbled but never bit,

Or worse,

That bit

And then got away,

I should fish to get them back,

Now and every day.

M. Joseph Burt     (26.6.6)

Skinny

We were both of us skinny 

Back then, Ruth Gray

Both of us skinny back then

Now I am not and you still are

But

We were both of us skinny back then

We were all elbows and knees

Back then, Ruth gray

We were all ribs and bones back then

We held a candle to Cambodia

And

We were both of us skinny back then

The Catwalk craves your figure,

Ruth Gray, Ruth Gray

Bulimically want to be you 

But you and I never did feel that way

We never did feel that way, Ruth Gray*

It's something only you and I knew

M. Joseph Burt      (26.6.6)

*I have no idea how Ruth Gray felt, but I always imagined at the time that she felt the same way as me.