JOHN BULL

In no other way did I subliminally identify
With father whose eyes cast askew
In the proper way American idioms
And simple sentences were conjunctured
With perfect timing of those ironies
And mishaps in his after dinner conversations;
A puffed cheek now and then
With a thin lipped crooked smile---
I always secretly believed that he tutored
Jack London in that crisp and telltale way
As if London had at an unrecorded time before his death
Made English more American than any other language…
He made me feel he copied Hemingway’s syntax,
Leaving me to guess
What fighting a southpaw could do
To guys with pointy chins
Who seemed fated to hit the canvas
By the end of the second round or sooner…
He never whined the way Post War novels showed characters losing every fight
Against Marciano’s shoulders
While those lacing his gloves saw a glint of fear
Before the first round bell;
Catching them thinking of a split decision
Or even smaller stakes after being knocked out
Counting that share of that fight’s wagers…
He was the Marlin never caught at night
In the distant lights of old Havana
As he was the artic dog
In a fight that toppled an old English bulldog
And gashed his throat
So that the loss of blood alone
Would send the limey back
To gasp while fighting for each breath
Back in Liverpool or Manchester…
Perhaps to sire a brood of pups
Adapt at catching rats
While standing back at the site
Of feral artic dogs
They pitted him against…
Father never ceased to smile
At any John Bull whose bulbous gut
Pointed to the underbelly of his aggressive strategies:
He saw the world as an American millennium
And ridiculed the different Island dialects
Of those he felt for sure
Were hard put to sound like him.
He who craved killing sharks for sport
And lacerating English curs
He called all his dogs “Buster”
Who never flirted with the pompous titles of pedigree
Noble fish like marlins and blue blood canines
Found no place in his heart
Bent on breaking dire looks and reputations
Like all his countryman smile
Because they never really conquered Ireland.

 Ken Siegelman
Brooklyn Poet Laureate
June, 2007