Poetry Pals - Week 15 - Genealogy Poetry
Poetry inspired by familial names, sort of.
Hello people,
This week over at
we had a wonderful guest, who gave us the most wonderful poem about her relationship to her ancestors. Pop over and take a look at her Substack. So…Our task…
Your Writing Prompt:
1. Think about your paternal and maternal family names. If you don't know much, Google them. Seriously.
2. Take note of four things that resonate with you and contemplate why. These could be people historical or etymological facts, folklore or just a feeling.
3. Write a piece, using all four, in whatever form works for you without mentioning either names.
So now this was going to be difficult. I’ve done the work previously tracing my ancestors back. On my father’s mother’s side of the family I have a family tree that is written down and kept at Greenwich in London. I can trace back from my grandmother’s father to William the Conquerer. (It’s true, I’m not kidding.) They weren’t very nice people, really, they were overlords in Ireland, oppressors. It’s all a bit embarrassing really.
Items of note. Walter was appointed 1st bailiff of Limerick in 1198 a tradition carried on down theh centuries. Nicolas was a Knight Hospitalar of the order St. John of Jerusalem in the early 13th century. The Black Prince, Edward, his tomb impressive. As a child I stood and gazed, nose lifted, toes tipped. Barely tall enough to see him entombed in bronze for all to see. I didn’t really understand death then, I didn’t understand how this effigy could relate to my family, my father so proud to claim him as an ancestor, albeit a rather distant one. 1376 was hard to imagine or understand aged 6. How did we fall from elaborate bronze tombs laid on view in a famous ancient cathedral to an almost too small house, very little gentrification, and even less money? From those frequent visits I developed a fascination with tombs, the thought of real bodies slowly crumbling to dust underneath the perfect effigies, thrilling. Their once earthly presence captured for centuries to come. The skill of the stone masons exquisite, folded linen depicted so precisely in satin smooth marble. I liked reading epitaphs to see if a sense of person sprang from the carefully carved letters. I hate my mother’s, Sandie, gravestone. No bronze effigy for her, spilling tales of glory, no grave goods hung above, no verses glorifying her being, just a plain, simple shape and few words. The words said nothing, just her name, age and dates. The words said nothing, no hint at love, at life, at worth. Ignatius was made a baronet by Charles II, and Baron and Marquis by the Emperor Leopold in 1677. George (John) murdered his father, also George, and the housekeeper in a fit of rage with a hammer, and swung at Newgate in 1818. Questions are raised about the housekeeper in my mind. Henrietta’s father, John (my great grandfather) gambled away what was left of the family fortune, and the family was forced to take in lodgers to make ends meet. Henrietta married the lodger causing a scandal, she 18 he 35, she was a formidable woman born at the wrong end of the 20th century. Frank (the lodger) built whole road systems on the continent taking his new young bride who was only 8 years older than his daughter from his first wife. On the other side … Martha, originally from Ireland, left it all behind for the new world in 1638, her endeavours afterwards are lost from view. The view now hazy for centuries. Mabel worked in service at the big house in the 1920s and was given a dinner set upon her wedding and subsequent necessary leaving. Harold worked on the railways and was so exempt war service and sported a crocked little finger that didn’t work after a rail track was dropped on it. Trevor sailed the seas with the merchant navy, delivering goods to needy countries, whilst one sister nursed and another sewed. When I was a child and used to look up our family names in the cumbersome yellow paged phone directory, it was rare that I found anyone I wasn’t related to already. I squealed with joy when I found someone new and quizzed my parents over and over in case they were a long lost relative I knew nothing about. In my head if you had either of our names you were so very special. Ah, the innocence of youth.
Ancestral Heritage
Dwellers of the oak forest;
workers of the land, benders of wood.
Descendants of warriors;
the religious fervour of sword and land.
Murderers and Justices of the Peace;
the hanged and the executioners.
The rich and the poor.
A long line of ancestors of worthy name.
Both lauded and denounced
for their part in history.
One side is latent aristocracy,
one the poorest of the poor;
and the two came together in me. Well there we are. What do you think? What are your tales of ancestors and ancestry? Tell me below.
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There’s a lot there!