when did you cease

when did you cease
the passage through
this shadowland and
to our forest home?
hand in hand upon the
fen and moor
no more the fiery hearth
to warm our night-graced
flesh, still cool from
starry air
with care our loving words
beneath the heaven's stair
fingers through your
gleaming hair
til words failed the
lover's lips
you said you burned
for me
and I believed the
shape your mouth made
afraid to miss
a single part
when did the
ceasing start?

Can You See Yourself

can you see yourself as a child
in some image of the past?
chequered picnic blankets by the
blue water
sand castles suspended under
younger faces
(in their excellency
these are perfect graces)
beyond reclamation but for
their fuzzy traces
did i miss something there?
what did i forget to do?
who am i
to raise this child's ghost?
am i still that little boy
beneath the elm and
mother's spreading smile?

Once upon a mistake

There once was a father who hurt his little girl.  They lived in a house of screams.  I took that little girl and drove out where the sun sets, where the mountains point to higher things.  But the valleys were lower there, and the slopes too steep to climb.  We smashed ourselves to pieces along the precipices, the highway of "higher things."

That was my first mistake

I took that little girl back to her father and sat while he paced the kitchen floor.  He sneered and laughed at our failure, sunken eyes piercing a quiet daughter.  Chin thrust out he grabbed her arm and shook her like a rag.  Rising to my feet with fury in my throat and hands, I seized this man and threw him from his own house.

That was my second mistake  

There once was a mother who sat quietly while a father hurt her little girl.  She lived in a house of screams.  I left that mother sitting at a kitchen table while her husband lay sprawled outside the door.  I drove away without looking back or thinking about tomorrow, having done with "higher things."

That was my third mistake

When dreams die

We sat at a table overlooking the water.  The setting sun filled the air with fire, licking the edges of the cafe's tables and chairs.  But on such a beautiful evening your eyes were filled with tears.  Your marriage was disintegrating.  The man you loved, and still love, treats you more like an enemy than a friend.

When dreams die, we die with them... a part of us anyway.

There wasn't anything I wouldn't do for you.  You know that.  But I couldn't say the magic words to make your marriage better, though by God if I knew them, I swear I would. 

I remember when you were a little girl, how the joy used to shine from your eyes like sunbeams from heaven.  I remember the way you laughed and crinkled up your nose.  Now I look at you and watch the tears stream from those eyes and drip from the end of your nose.  Knowing what I know now would I have tried to stop your marriage?  It's an impossible thought, a useless one.  I shake my head.  Looking at the water I'm filled with the need to do something for you, anything, but I stay quiet. 

After you say goodbye and return home I remain at our table.   The water is darker now and the lights along the harbourfront are on.  A cool breeze begins to blow across the bay. 

Dreams die.  Oh my heart was breaking for you. 

All those dreams you had for your marriage have faded like the setting sun, only there will be no rising the next day.  But, and I am filled with a sliver of growing hope at the thought, the sun will rise on other possibilities, brand new possibilities!  You'll love again and have new dreams.

Rising to my feet I am elated.  Yes, I know you will thrive and be happy once more.  I've made up my mind to do something for you that very night.  After returning to our home I'll sign the divorce papers and hand them to you myself. 

Move over Joe

move over Joe
make way for the multitude
of pikininis whose lives you've touched
the nihonjin to whom you held out a hand
whose damp caves the only succor
in those dark days after the atom split
you were the brighter light!
incarnate Friend I remember you

 

and I remember a story you told me:
in the jungle of Papua
friend Jab took something that wasn't his
you good man confronted him
demanded payment be made
and he cursed you
in anger you struck his face
then both with shocked expression
embraced and wept
he repayed the theft
but you returned the money
(the fine for striking another)

 

I remember the tear in your eye
as you shared this story
and I know you've shed more
since your darling RB has gone
through war, cyclone, disease
she held your hand
she holds it still

 

move over Joe
make way for the ones you loved
spanning globe and time
they fill the world
because you filled it
and I with your memory
am full this Christmas season

 

Depression

Depression is an inexplicable thing.  No matter how hard you try to put your finger on its cause the answer eludes you.  Is it due to this or that event in my life?  Or is it the sum of these things.. the sum of a series of unfortunate events?  I think in my case I can discern a beginning, or perhaps an event after which nothing would be the same, a traumatic beginning.  Running through a doorway, discovering the prostrate form of my grandfather, discovering death and then trying to overcome it with whatever abilities I had.  Failing.  Calling on my God to come help me in my moment (the moment if there ever was one in that young life) of need.  The realization I was entirely alone.  Glancing down at once powerful arms now resting lifeless on the concrete floor and seeing a wristwatch still silently ticking off the seconds.  A growing fury inside me on seeing this watch... Eventually an ambulance arriving, then driving into the distance.  Then alone, returning home through the forest over moss-covered paths.  The bewildered looks on the faces of family as I walk through the house overturning chairs and tables on my way to the small sanctuary of my room.  "He's dead!" I yell at them.  "I couldn't help him!"  It was too late to say goodbye or anything else.  Tempus edax rerum- Time, devourer of all things.  All things fall to it, even the ancient gods.. and the ones we think we know.

What was the true beginning of this sum of events, this depressive condition?  Was it the shock of discovering death in place of my loving grandfather?  Was it the failure of a God I was led to believe could not fail, answered prayer, possessed omnipotence and so could act on His love for me, and so a discovery that death, or rather absence, stood also in the place of my God?  Was it my inability to revive a still warm body before me?  Was it the sound and feel of breaking bones during CPR?  Was it the taste of his mouth, the smell of his breath, and the sound of air escaping his lungs?  Was it the watch that dispassionately counted off the seconds even though its master could wind it no longer?  Was it the solitude of the aftermath, the walk through a living forest which was also under time's injunction?  It was of course the sum of these things.. and yet, except for perhaps this last which receives its power from the others, any one of them by themselves would have been enough.  So it may be the relationship of one to the other adds significance to these individual events and so to the sum.

The "sum" doesn't end with these events.. it is something one can calculate at any moment, but always a present moment.  Do we carry these things about like Sisyphus?  At what point can we release them and gaze at the valley below?  Perhaps the promise of a hilltop ensured that Sisyphus would continue to struggle.  Even after he realized there was no rest at the top, that he was doomed forever to bear his load to the heights, he did not let his weight slide instantly away to the bottom but continued to push the cursed rock.  Why didn't he simply let go?  I think the answer must be that it had nothing to do with rocks.

 

The Beer Shall Flow Again

For St. Paddy's Day, and for the expats far from our Northern "Gelderland".






The beer shall flow again
The beer shall flow again
The beer shall flow again
In our Gelderland
To victory in the battle
To meat and merriment
Come, let’s drink now
To our Gelderland

Endured a thousand dark nights
Crawled through the deepest dales
Loneliness in our lives
Sneaked through nocturnal forests

The beer shall flow again
The beer shall flow again
The beer shall flow again
In our Gelderland
To victory in the battle
To meat and merriment
Come, let’s drink now
To our Gelderland

The coldest ice has been set foot on
The strongest flows, waded through
The greatest enemy, exterminated
The heaviest storm has been endured

The beer shall flow again
The beer shall flow again
The beer shall flow again
In our Gelderland
To victory in the battle
To meat and merriment
Come, let’s drink now
To our Gelderland

Far away from hearth and home
The country, so beloved by us
Yearning for our Gelderland
The sails are tight in the eastern wind

The beer shall flow again
The beer shall flow again
The beer shall flow again
In our Gelderland
To victory in the battle
To meat and merriment
Come, let’s drink now
To our Gelderland

Our destination is the horizon
We are chasing the sun
Longing for our place of birth
Now, the Rhine is leading us homeward

The beer shall flow again
The beer shall flow again
The beer shall flow again
In our Gelderland
To victory in the battle
To meat and merriment
Come, let’s drink now
To our Gelderland

Don't let go

Compatriots
Tell me of love
And I'll sing to you of loss..

Blog post from the past

The following is taken from a blog draft written December 16, 2006, separated from my wife, on the verge of divorce, after returning home to spend Christmas with strangers.

How is it that a man can sit in a room surrounded by people and still feel alone?  Some men prefer it this way.  They are at ease until someone should happen to say something to them, at which point, the man feels suddenly shaken, even violated in some way.  The offence is worse if the person should speak directly to him.  It is not so bad if the other should sit down beside him and, gazing out into the crowd without looking at the man, say something requiring no more than a grunt or a “hmm”.  At this point the two can remain silent and feel no awkwardness.  It is only when one becomes aware of the other’s presence that discomfort should follow.  When one has the expectation that two people sitting next to one another should speak to each other then any silence is hardly tolerated.  One can often observe one of these people in action, trying to stimulate conversation, saying the most ridiculous things to prompt the other to speak.  “This is certainly a nice evening isn’t it?”  Or even more ridiculous: “I hear it’s supposed to get colder.”  The silent man, at this point, may do one of three things.  1) He will answer with a nod of the head or raise his eyebrows but for the rest of the evening bear a grudge against the one who violated his peace with such foolish statements; 2) He will simply move to another location where he can dip some shrimp in seafood sauce, or quietly stack a piece of cheese, some assorted meat, on top of a cheese or perhaps herb flavoured cracker; or 3) He will lash out at the offender with a verbal assault.  He may do all three.  Slowly he will nod his head, his neck and face beginning to flush with fury, his eyebrows will rise and his eyes bulge until suddenly he bursts out with “For God’s sake is that the most intelligent thing you can say?!”  Or perhaps, “Who really cares about the weather, it will be what it will be, and the evening is like any other!”  Afterwards he’ll make his way to the table with assorted cold cuts, cheese and crackers, and if he’s lucky the shrimp, where he’ll prepare a tasty tidbit which will distract him from the embarrassment of his outburst.  It is embarrassing in the end, though also gratifying.  It is embarrassing because he was forced to break his own silence, to violate his own spherical vacuum of silence surrounding his body.  He’ll realize he had a choice, that he could have remained silent, adhered to point 1) or simply moved straight to point 2) without calling any attention to himself.  But it was also gratifying, he’ll decide, as he eats his cracker and cheese.  He may even smile to himself.  The look on the other person’s face was priceless. 

The Unbearable Weight

Claudio Ianora

How does one really honour the dead? It has a hollow sound.. "honour the dead," like the emptiness of an apology to a tombstone. Yet there exists a need to give honour to those who are worthy of it, even if it is too late for the honoured to received their praise. There is nothing left to do in any case.

I give honour to Claudio Ianora, to Cain who wandered the earth, who wasn't afraid to shake his fist at the host of heaven on occasion, who in fact was the most faithful man I have ever known. He was the salt of the earth. He was a Van Gogh in many ways. His colours were words. Like Beckett's man who always wanted rest and was never able to find it in this life, he finally did find it on All Saint's Day, 2011. I for one will never forget this man. I shall miss our talks.

Reminiscence

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end..."

For some reason the truth of this statement has hit home on a number of levels lately. From completing one degree and starting another just days after my thesis defense, to caring for a dear friend whose past had a head on collision with her present, to other new beginnings which are not my own, but which contain the sign of an end, one I know and feel all too well, that is closer to my heart than any other.

There is no easy transition from one to the other.. the articulation of a "beginning" is completely subjective. It is only possible from the perspective of a subject. It is a choice. It is the end of a scene.

We have our stories don't we? You have yours and I have mine. We hear a little of each other's, we sometimes fill in the gaps with our own inventions, our own assumptions. Won't you sit for a while and help clear up the misconceptions? You are after all a brother.. a sister. Will we continue to play host to demons of our own design? We were once friends, we could be still.

Who has had a radical break? Tell me who has lost a multitude of worlds in a moment of time? Whose beginning has been an end? Who has seen that the promises of friends and religion are chaff in the wind? For who has truth been a sword of Damocles? I know a man. When I am old I will know him.

There's no use in raging. In poetry there is a kind of solace.. silence is better.