"Why don't you write me a poem that will prepare me for your death?" you said. It was a rare day here in our climate, bright and sunny. I didn't feel like dying that day. I didn't even want to think about it -- my lovely knees and bold shoulders broken open, Crawling with maggots. Good Christ! I stood at the window and I saw a strange dog Running in the field with its nose down, sniffing the snow, zigging and zagging, And whose dog is that? I asked myself. As if I didn't know. The limbs of the apple trees Were lined with snow, making a bright calligraphy against the world, messages to me From an enigmatic source in an obscure language. Tell me, how shall I decipher them? And a jay slanted down to the feeder and looked at me behind my glass and squawked. Prepare, prepare. Fuck you, I said, come back tomorrow. And here he is in this new gray and gloomy morning. We're back to our normal weather. Death in the air, the idea of death settling around us like mist, And I am thinking again in despair, in desperation, how will it happen? Will you wake up Some morning and find me lying stiff and cold beside you in our bed? How atrocious! Or will I fall asleep in the car, as I nearly did a couple of weeks ago, and drive off the road Into a tree? The possibilities are endless and not at all fascinating, except that I can't stop Thinking about them, can't stop envisioning that moment of hideous violence. Hideous and indescribable as well, because it won't happen until it's over. But not for you For you it will go on and on, thirty years or more, since that's the distance between us In our ages. The loss will be a great chasm with no bridge across it (for we both know Our life together, so unexpected, is entirely loving and rare). Living on your own -- Where will you go? what will you do? And the continuing sense of displacement From what we've had in this little house, our refuge on our green or snowbound Hill. Life is not easy and you will be alive. Experience reduces itself to platitudes always, Including the one which says that I'll be with you forever in your memories and dreams. I will. And also in hundreds of keepsakes, such as this scrap of a poem you are reading now.
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Date: 2008-09-30 10:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-01 09:46 am (UTC)Prepare (for Joe-Anne McLaughlin Carruth)
Date: 2008-10-01 05:50 pm (UTC)"Why don't you write me a poem that will prepare me for your death?" you said.
It was a rare day here in our climate, bright and sunny. I didn't feel like dying that day.
I didn't even want to think about it -- my lovely knees and bold shoulders broken open,
Crawling with maggots. Good Christ! I stood at the window and I saw a strange dog
Running in the field with its nose down, sniffing the snow, zigging and zagging,
And whose dog is that? I asked myself. As if I didn't know. The limbs of the apple trees
Were lined with snow, making a bright calligraphy against the world, messages to me
From an enigmatic source in an obscure language. Tell me, how shall I decipher them?
And a jay slanted down to the feeder and looked at me behind my glass and squawked.
Prepare, prepare. Fuck you, I said, come back tomorrow. And here he is in this new gray and gloomy morning.
We're back to our normal weather. Death in the air, the idea of death settling around us like mist,
And I am thinking again in despair, in desperation, how will it happen? Will you wake up
Some morning and find me lying stiff and cold beside you in our bed? How atrocious!
Or will I fall asleep in the car, as I nearly did a couple of weeks ago, and drive off the road
Into a tree? The possibilities are endless and not at all fascinating, except that I can't stop
Thinking about them, can't stop envisioning that moment of hideous violence.
Hideous and indescribable as well, because it won't happen until it's over. But not for you
For you it will go on and on, thirty years or more, since that's the distance between us
In our ages. The loss will be a great chasm with no bridge across it (for we both know
Our life together, so unexpected, is entirely loving and rare). Living on your own --
Where will you go? what will you do? And the continuing sense of displacement
From what we've had in this little house, our refuge on our green or snowbound
Hill. Life is not easy and you will be alive. Experience reduces itself to platitudes always,
Including the one which says that I'll be with you forever in your memories and dreams.
I will. And also in hundreds of keepsakes, such as this scrap of a poem you are reading now.
--Hayden Carruth
http://haydencarruth.netfirms.com/prepare.htm (http://haydencarruth.netfirms.com/prepare.htm)