The Linnet's Wings :Take All My Loves, My Love - Page 81

The Linnet´s Wings y Grandfather Johnny Igoe was a little Irish man. He stood a mere five-foot-six, but was a giant to me when his poetic voice rolled across the lamp-lit porch floor. He always wore a felt hat, a white beard, and often a pair of bicycle clips on his pant legs in the later years so he wouldn’t trip himself. His blue eyes were excavations, deep and musical, caught up in other places you could tell, places where poems rang and memories, old names, old faces, and the geography of mankind dwelled. They held places he had left and feared he’d never get back to. Each of his canes knew the back of your knees, the rump, in a grab at attention. Older townsfolk, walking by, talked to him at the open kitchen window, the curl of pipe smoke rising between them, while Grandma was at her oven, her room full of breads and sweets. On our summer porch at night, the fireflies hustling about in the near fields, my Grandfather read William B.Yeats to me when I was a youngster. He rocked in his chair, smoking his pipe, making music and rhythm in his life, and in mine. I was, at the first of Yeats, about six years old. “Listen,” he’d say, pointing his finger up. “Hear the music. Know the sound. Feel the grab.” Johnny Igoe, spellbinder remembered. On that porch on Main Street, a mere mile out of Saugus Center, he and Yeats holding forth, his voice would roll into the field where fireflies lived and where Chuckie Shipulski’s house now sits. His words, mixed with the fireflies waiting on my bottle, captured a sense of deeper darkness where they could further show off their electric prowess. The times were magnetic, electric. I knew what attention was. Oh, I loved those compelling nights filled with Horseman, ride by; Prayer for My Daughter 81