After his trip to the Far East, when he talked to lots of people and engaged them in interesting conversations about their lives, those same people were horrified to find that the pleasant gentleman with whom they had had a chinwag had used their accounts as the basis for a very successful series of revealing short stories.  Perhaps, when the short stories are of such quality as those that Somerset Maugham wrote, it is possible to forgive his cavalier use of confidence!
     In other words, there are some writers who see the world passing before their eyes as an unending offering of more and more material for them to use.  Which I suppose is fine, until the nearest and dearest of the writer find themselves transmogrified (but still recognisable) as the basis for some literary treat.
     Which is my way of saying that I have written a poem about going to my aunt's funeral.  Which is the day after tomorrow.
     A fair number of my recent poems have been about time, memory and age and, as I am now of retirement age (at least the retirement age for my generation!) it is hardly surprising that thoughts turn to mortality, especially when death comes to a relative.
     Of my uncles and aunts, now only one remains alive.  I know that it is a natural and inevitable process, but that doesn't make it any the less unsettling.
     My aunt had reached what is generally described as a 'good age' and therefore, the funeral should be more of a celebration of a life than grieving for a life gone.  Sadness is inevitable, but . . . and I suppose at this point you can write in any cliché about life 'continuing' that you want to.  My response is this poem.

I found that what I wanted to say formed itself into an unrhymed sonnet-like poem.  
     I wanted, in the content, to combine the practical with the theoretical.  So the poem opens with the ordinary considerations that such an occasion demands, and leads on to turning the funereal eye towards the next generation in line.  
     A form of practicality links the opening and closing of the poem, by thinking about two different forms of preparation: sartorial and funereal.

Attending the Funeral of an Agèd Aunt

Cupboard-stale and double-cuffed, white shirts;

all-purpose suit that doesn’t really fit; 

the rummaging for ‘nice-but-sombre’ tie;

recalcitrant belongings, badly packed:

it’s what a funeral’s become for me.

As relative-stacked generations die away,

the knowledge that we’re next in line

is inescapable.  

                        We’ve been protected

from the wars 

                        that made our parents

(and made theirs) accept a choice.

No bullets (probably) will stop our lives.

A long, drawn-out and under-funded death

will be technology and politics’ life-gift:

an irony, that mocks our lack of choice.

I am also working on a linked group of three poems called 'The Visit'.  I have written a draft (so are they all drafts!) of the first poem and I hope to write the other two over the next couple of weeks.  when I have something I will post it for consideration.

You might also like to dip into my blog which stretches back to 2006.  there are not as many entries as there were in the early days, but I am resolving to write more and write more often.

The blog is: cardifftocatalonia.blogspot.com.es

Any comments will be welcome!