I didn’t get to write a blog on Friday like I do usually. The reason: illness. Not dire, not an aneurism, or the bubonic plague, or H1N1, or anything, but enough to keep me in my pyjamas and away from my keyboard for most of the weekend.
Nonetheless, last night I was well enough to go out, and my friends and I found ourselves talking about faces, and recognition, and I won’t bore you with the details. The conversation reminded me of a poem that I came across years ago. It’s called ‘My Father’s Face’ and it begins:
Every morning when I shave I see his face
Or something like a sketch of it gone wrong.
And it ends:
The prude and lecher in him moiled and
fought within the rough-house of his pride.
And killed each other when his body died.
And in the middle there is a very excellent poem by, I believe, and Australian male poet, but damned if I can remember his name. In fact, the author might have been British, Canadian, or Sudanese for all I know.
I would very much like to read this poem again. The phrase ‘My Father’s Face’ is so ubiquitous, however, that Google provides far too many incorrect results for a single diamond to show through the rough.
If anyone can help me find a copy of this poem, I would be very grateful.