Poem of the month
Belfast Boy
My chosen poem for this edition of the newsletter was written by a lovely woman called Joan McCabe who lives in Belfast. I first met Joan during a very tedious shopping trip as I was trying to choose curtains for our house in France. I am not sure if many of you would know, but just ten days after George’s funeral our house was destroyed in an arson attack. As you can imagine it was a very difficult time and once the very lengthy police investigation was completed, we were allowed to start rebuilding six months after the fire. Our initial reaction was to sell, but our stubborn streak kicked in as there was no logical reason behind the attack and we wouldn’t be forced to move from the house which had been not just our dream, but had been where George had spent happy times with us. We had fervently hoped that it would be his bolthole during difficult times. Anyway, I am digressing from Joan but that is just the background on how we met.
As a young woman Joan had actually done some of her teaching practice at George’s school, Lishasharragh where she recalled many happy memories about the football mad fourth year students.
Joan was very emotional as she told me what a profound effect George’s death had on her and we both had a bit of a sniffle together. She had written the poem just two days after George’s death and forwarded it on to our Dad’s address. Although every single piece of correspondence was kept and filed (and still is) I couldn’t remember seeing her poem. She promised to forward another copy and sure enough two days later a lovely hand written letter arrived, which in itself is unusual in this day and age where computers have taken over our lives.
Joan admits that she ‘cried her eyes out’ penning the poem and in her letter she wrote “I had prayed so hard for him to recover, lit candles to carry all our wishes up to God, but his time had come” Those words alone set me off looking for my tissues and by the time I eventually managed to get to the end of the poem, I was so moved. I find in incredible how people can find such beautiful words.
Here is Joan’s poem. Make up your own mind.
Belfast boy, with those azure eyes
and the print of God’s thumb on your chin
Beneath that dazzling smile,
you captured our hearts.
You were poetry in motion
on those weaving, dancing feet,
world icon, blessed with genius
with Mercury’s wings on your heels.
Now a swaying ribbon of grief
weeps along with heaven’s tears
as sweet voices ease your passage home.
Even in death you seduce us
as you are carried high
crowned by fragrant lilies,
and then laid to rest
in the soft brown earth,
Belfast boy, safe
in your mother’s arms.
