The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1995, Page 60

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THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
SPRING/SUMMER 1995
MY OLD MAN
by Johannes ur Kotluni
My father’s a snuff-taker, funny and bald,
who is fond of his cap made of leather,
and coffee (as black as ink) and booze
are the best things he knows altogether.
He seldom washes and surely not well
and is seen at meetings but rarely,
and most of the time his matted beard
is a mess — to put it squarely.
He spat on the floor but a few hours past
— a fine place — with total dispassion,
then sneezed and bid the Lord bless himself
in the best of Christian fashion.
At no other time will he name his God,
and he never does any “readin' ”
and Bishop Peter, that kindly clerk,
he calls now invariably Petekin.
He doesn’t much ponder the puzzles of life
but plods on, immutably going,
a simple farmer who sets his teeth
and sweats, cleaning stables and mowing.
Yet sometimes he speaks to himself alone,
as if sunk in mental endeavour,
and then in his wonderment wags his head
but why — none will fathom ever.
My father’s a riddle, all guarded and gray;
even God doesn’t know where he’s going.
He never has ceased his benumbing toil,
yet has nothing but debts that keep growing.
A Danish monopoly doled out his lot:
a drudgery earning him pittance
that buys perhaps coffee and barely enough
for tobacco and interest remittance.