Three Stages of Loss (a re-post) ~Erinn~

May 11 07:37 UTC 1999

       Once afternoon, following a particularly interesting class (it was
my Modern European Poetry in Translation class, with one of the most
incredibly gifted and intelligent men ever, Dr. Nick Bozanic), I wrote
this poem.  I have a strange gift, it seems, to give voice and words to
things before they happen; tonight I discovered how Cassandra must have
felt each time she played the oracle, how Thomas The Rhymer must have felt
each time he opened his mouth and the truth spilled out.

        It was tonight that I was informed that someone who was my friend
and once who I was very deeply in love with has passed on.  His name is
Michael McDonald; his login was agethwhe on m-net and grex.  The day I
wrote this poem, it just suddenly appeared to me, like a hazy vision that
needed these words.  Little did I know that it would come true, that I
would feel these things for real, that he would leave by dying.  I didn't
understand much of this piece, either; it was so weird that I would be
writing a death poem at the beginning of the spring of my senior year
about someone who was definately alive and who I thought was never going
to throw in the towel.  Someone who made ME feel so alive.

        But he's gone now.  And I'm here.  

        And I don't quite understand why this is happening.  And I feel so
lost, and angry.  Just like I felt when I wrote this piece.  And I
can't seem to stop crying, which is funny, because when I got the
call tonight, I could hardly cry at all.  I could hardly breathe,
even.  All I could feel was my heartbeat racing and layers of cheesecloth
wrapping themselves around me.

        Anyway, I don't mean to write a missive...here's the poem.  I
fixed a few things, but otherwise, it's almost the same as when I posted
it to poetry two years ago.


(Thu May  1 15:08:08 1997)


 Three Stages of Loss   

 
 I.  If
 
 If you should go, 
 
        leave the nexus of your thoughts to me and I will spread them 
        like a comforter across our sheets to make a webwork of loving 
        and letters sewn together by distance.
 
 If you should go,
 
        let me take the core of your voice and set it beneath my pillow.
        On my newfound bed, in the soft light of morning, I will not wake
        without hearing you finally beside me.
 
 If you should go,
        
        my hands will clench to catch and hold a cloudburst of confusion,
        and I will know what the rain feels as it slips into the 
        crevices of the earth.
 
 
 II.  Strength
 
 Today I saw you lying still.
 There were walls of stone,
 walls of black wood, 
 walls of white satin.
 These things seem eclipsed by the coldness,
 by the numb tears and drawn faces;
 a wall of people and a wall of organ hymns,
 the dark hands of the music brighter 
 than their eyes seeped in the glory of their God.
 Vivid with disbelief,
 a miriad of forced acceptance,
 we creep around the threshold of life
 and spit lies along the pathway of the past
 -- to reach you.
 
 I balled my fist with irresolute anger,
 but you stayed quiet.
 I let only tears of love fall,
 but you laid still.
 I flew through the blanketing anguish of your life
 with the lies you kept sacred by your father's wishes
 and the slap that you recieved by your mother at birth --
   later reitterated with your brother in her arms --
 And I take this podium now to live the moment
 as you could not.
 
    
 III.  Eulogy
 
 Euridice points no fingers at Orpheus.
 She is happier now in her ignorence.
 There is one amoung us today 
 who keeps his silence,
 which was always your intent.
 
 Who here will be Orpheus?
 Who will take up his song of repentance
 and sing?
 Who will take up the stone of grief
 and build?
 No hymns will do now, nor will these walls


 Give us peace.
 

 Euridice, forgive me, I love you.
 Euridice, I love you and I lose you now,
 but I wonder who's loss is greater:
 Mine or the ones who you leave behind,
 lost in the wake of confusion cast 
 by the last breath you took before flight?
 
 I tell you truly, you who I blame.
 I tell you now 
   -- that you may be branded --
 that the dead are not empty of life,
 but full of their death,
 which pushes out the anger 
 with a subtle rush of wings and fire --
 
 And silence.

response 2 of 7:

Jun 2 03:01 UTC 1999

Truly Muse-inspired, and worthy of a true bard.  We will keep it forever 
in the memory of Grex history-- it is deserving of the praise of the 
Ancients, for they wept in such a manner.

Peace be to your soul, Erinn, and to his memory.  You two were among the 
very, very first people I met online here at Grex.  Your genteel manner 
and hospitable greeting were heart-warming and I miss him even though 
I've never met either of you in person.

response 6 of 7:

Jun 15 13:40 UTC 1999

thanks, I'll collect on that hug in the near future.