From The Life Of The Artist.

As a child I saw . . . everything.

I saw mother, totally tormented,

round on father, there in the scullery,

and wound him in the neck with a knife,

just a dinner knife, not at all sharp.

It was simply what came to hand.

Such was the provocation,

the wish might have been murderous,

but the injury proved almost nothing,

the bloodshed minimal.

It must have been round the same time

that I saw father, indeed heard him,

strike mother on the head with a spoon,

a sizeable dessert spoon,

an action she greatly resented.

I heard her complain of it much later,

her eyes squinting as if her head still hurt.

So it was probably just tit for tat,

just a class of comical exchange

performed with cutlery, with objects.

I guess they preferred, at that stage,

not to touch each other.

It was, of course, all horribly squalid,

and it must appear in bad taste,

if not downright disgraceful,

that I resort to such material.

But, you see, I have no regrets,

no shame, no hurt, no social scruples

about exposing my poor parents.

Yes, I feel pity, at times deep pity,

for, seeing everything as I did,

I clearly saw their agony,

their years of daily agony.

Both long dead, their agony is over

and they cannot resent my frankness

as to their private domestic antics.

But why go there now?

Well, I was thinking it was time

to visit them, to revisit them,

and to assure them, their memories?,

that all is well, fully and truly well,

that all is resolved, completely.

Let me state clearly here and now,

inspired neither by some loyal streak

nor by some sentimental silliness,

that, for all their gross flaws,

they were, in my judgemen, ideal,

were just what I required.

How can I make such a claim?

How? All I can offer is this.

I find that, creatively,

I am, at this time, most receptive

and most capable of realising

to my own inner satisfaction

what is called upon me to do.

What more could I ask?

This is most precious to me.

However others might judge it,

or however denied the light of day,

the work, its execution, as now,

imparts a feeling of consummation.

It is no matter if I am deluded,

if I am deceived by my own conceit.

The feeling itself is real,

is all my own, my own business.

This being so,

I am exactly as I would be,

would not be otherwise than I am.

I do not dare to regret anything,

lest, subtracting something vital,

the outcome might be altered.

Everything that has brought me to this,

and the drama of the childhood home

must surely be no minor factor,

has been, I conclude, just right.

So,

whatever you, whoever you may be,

might chance to say of your parents,

and I am ever deadly sceptical

of any glowing praise in that regard,

I must counter by declaring,

really quite truthfully declaring:

'Your parents might have had their virtues,

might have been model in their way,

but let it be understood that my own

were nothing short of perfect,

simply perfect!'