When my father died (poem)

In the early 70s, I was very interested in modern poetry and I still have several anthologies dating from that period. In 2007 I mentioned where this interest started - "The Mersey Sound", otherwise known as Penguin Modern Poets 10. Some time after this, I bought both PMP8 and PMP11; I didn't find anything rewarding to my adolescent mind in the latter volume, but some of the poems in PMP8 resonated with me, especially the poems of Edwin Brock. Of course, in the early 70s, there was no such thing as the Internet, and finding information about Brock, or even finding his poems, was nearly impossible. I have a memory, from my university days, of tracking down one of his books in some dusty library and photocopying the poems. I also bought a biography of the poet that appeared; both this and the poems were for my friend Linda.

Brock's section of PMP8 begins - indeed, the book itself begins - with an appropriate poem called "When my father died". Looking at it now, it doesn't seem so appropriate, and it transpires that my memories of this poem are mixed with another in the collection, titled "A moment of respect".

When my father died (Edwin Brock)

On the day my father died
    all the hoops in the neighbourhood rang
    skate wheels shrilled on summer pavements
    and I in my blakey-boots clanged one foot in each gutter

On the day my father died
    girls were running autumn-eyed, with wild hair
    and hand of silk; peg-tops had come round again
    and in the sky the angels were as plain as wings

But on the day my father died
    white faces fell from every window
    and every house found rooms of tears to hide
    while I, joy-jumping, empty-eyed sand on the day my father died

Now my father dies a little every day
And the faces from each window grow like mine

A moment of respect (Edwin Brock)

Two things I remember about my grandfather:
his threadbare trousers, and the way he adjusted
his half-hunter watch two minutes every day.

When I asked him why he needed to know the time so
exactly, he said a business man could lose a fortune
by being two minutes late for an appointment.

When he died he left two meerschaum pipes
and a golden sovereign on a chain. Somebody
threw the meerschaum pipes away, and
there was an argument about the sovereign.

On the day of his burial the church clock chimed
as he was lowered down into the clay, and all
the family advanced their watches by two minutes

One sentence of my father's has remained stuck in my memory for at least fifty five years: it is better to be early by half an hour then late by five minutes.