Graeme Hetherington: ‘What’s in a Name?’ and ‘Merging’

What’s in a Name? (2)
For the Skeggs-Hetherington clan

Entitled only by the dash
That joins in legal documents,
And through a step-great grandad to
Be called Hetherington, Skeggs alone,

Its sound uncushioned, unabsorbed,
Thick, harshly blunt, when
Unadorned by its better half,
Is, like it or not, my blood-name.

And there’s the rub, since it’s not just
That this appellation, suppressed
Till values changed, has brought to light
My convict past, direct kinship

With others as abruptly dubbed
As Fox Sparks Lynch Crack Maggs; nor that
It rhymes with dregs and brings to mind
The murderous Bill Sikes’ cringing pie-

Bald stunted cur, or even worse,
The onomatopoeic jerk,
The dislocating jolt and snap
Its brutish shortness sets off in

My ear as when lifts hurtling down
Come to a sudden shocking stop,
As though I was born to be hanged.
Most painful is that I have no

Inherited genetic claim
To the aesthetic of a three
Or four-syllable elegance,
Depending where the stress is placed.

Merging

I’m lucky in old age to dwell
In a unit that corresponds.
The walls and ceilings in all shades

Of grey and brown, armchairs and couch
In faded gold that sagging creak
And sigh as does the bed, sound notes

Appropriate to my decline.
While carpets fraying, curling at
The edges have patterns too faint

To tempt weak eyes to try and work
Them out, and so in their way too
Accommodate decrepitude,

And with the rest, including torn
Autumn-leafed curtains I keep drawn
In order to display, create

A welcoming, relaxing mood,
Till indistinguishable, I
Have harmony and peace at last.

Graeme Hetherington