In January I had an idea for an article about the poems that we carry with us. By ‘we’, I meant my Dad and me, first and foremost. I was spending a lot of time then up and down on the train to Norwich to visit him in his care home, where I would usually read him some of his favourite poems.

My Dad carried hundreds of poems in his head, and my brother and I grew up to the sound of them. I will arise and go now, he would say, whenever he got up to go anywhere. Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night has flung the Stone that put the Stars to Flight, he would declare, as he opened our curtains. We had absolutely no idea what he was on about, except that it was time to get up. He literally couldn’t spread a picnic rug without saying, A Flask of Wine, A Book of Verse – and Thou, which was confusing as he was teetotal.

My Dad was born in 1943, so he belonged to the generation who learned poems at school – whether ‘by heart’ or ‘by rote’ being a matter of opinion, or perhaps pedagogy. So the ‘we’ also referred to the poems that my Mum had carried around with her too, despite specialising in Maths rather than English.

My parents’ joint favourite poem was ‘Cargoes’ by John Masefield, which then put me in mind of all of us like little ships, carrying poem-treasure around with us wherever we go.

And then, once I saw that the summer issue of ‘Poetry Wales’ was to have a special focus on poetry and teaching, I got thinking about the poems my English teacher friends and I carry around with us, because we have taught them so many times and know them inside out. So the ‘we’ includes them, too.

All of that turned into an article for the recently-published issue of ‘Poetry Wales’, which is the first non-fiction piece of writing I’ve had in print. It’s an honour to see it published in this particular issue of the magazine, especially given the teaching heritage I gained from both of my parents, and at the moment when I’m about to enter my 30th year as a secondary school teacher.

Between me sending the article off at the end of January, and my copy of the magazine arriving through the door in August, a lot changed. In March, my Dad moved to a care home near where I live in Cambridge, so my visits on the train were replaced by short cycle rides along the river, and much greater peace of mind in having him closer by. I still read poems to him, as well as ‘The Wind in the Willows’ – a book I knew he’d enjoyed as a boy. Even though by then he was extremely frail, I could see how much he enjoyed listening to the familiar and comforting words. They comforted me too. On days when the world outside seemed like a frightening place, and when I was desperately worried about my Dad’s condition, it was soothing to be able to go to his room and do the only thing that I could do to help. It was so simple to sit by his bed, open a book and read aloud. It made the whole world slow down. It was the one thing that made sense.

My Dad died on Friday 12th June. The evening before, I’d read to him for half an hour, and then promised to come back the next day to carry on. He was peaceful and content when I left. The next morning, I’d just got to school when I took the call from the care home.

I read his favourite poem, ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’, at both his cremation and his memorial service. I’m so glad that it’s a poem that I carry around with me.

I miss reading to my Dad more than I can say. I feel as if I have lost my moorings. For his sake, I wouldn’t have wished to prolong his life a moment more. But this is what I wrote at the end of my article:

The time I spend sharing poems with my Dad is more precious to me than any of John Masefield’s cargoes. When I’m reading, I feel as if I’m giving him the thing that only I can, and the only thing that I can. Because it feels to me as if all those years ago, when he was waking us up with poems, and sharing them out on the picnic rug, and reading with us before bed, whether he knew it or not, he was laying down poems for the future, like an Antarctic explorer depositing stores for the journey back. I know exactly where to find his poems. They are still alive, hoarded in the deep heart’s core, helping us both home.

from ‘Cargoes: On Teachers and their Poem-Hoards’, in Poetry Wales Vol. 62 No. 1

You can purchase a print or online copy of this issue of ‘Poetry Wales’ here.