THE RULES OF THE GAME
I had my first hair cut when I was three.
(I had been tricked, bamboozled, farfirt).
My grandpa took me to his barber’s –
redolent with banter and tobacco smoke –
near the junction of Cricklewood Lane
and Finchley Road. It was frequented
by his card playing cronies. I watched him
have his hair trimmed and some strands combed over.
I was invited to try the high chair
but, no sooner there, I was begowned
and the scissors flashed. ‘Fetch a policeman!’
he always claimed I called out. I imagine
a shop full of Jewish refugees laughed
uneasily at my accidental vits.
He smoked Craven A in an ebony
cigarette holder, drank tea from a glass
with a silver plated handle and snacked
on Rakusen’s matzos coated with
Colman’s French Mustard. When I was eight
he taught me to shuffle a deck of cards,
perfumed with nicotine, from hand to hand
then thumbs and forefingers like a croupier.
He taught me Gin Rummy where the twos
of any suit are also deuces and wild
like the jokers. We could choose whether aces
were high or low. I liked the black cards best.
When we were playing he would sometimes pause
to tell me stories: of Kiev; his escape
from Russia; my father; my grandmother.
We continued to play well into my teens.
There were questions I did not know how to ask
and ones then I simply did not know to ask.
I pass the tiny tales on like pieces
of a mosaic. ‘Remember’, he said,
‘for patience whichever way you shuffle
first the jokers remove!’
John Huddart
April 25, 2016That quotation at the end – poetry is all about syntax, about translation! A rich and sensuous piece, and funny.
Steve Crewe
April 25, 2016You’ve excelled yourself this month, David, and stirred me to make three comments where often none are forthcoming. It is perhaps indicative of our age that memories from so long ago come so brightly to the fore, while what we did five minutes ago is often open to question.