Words are,
a comfort,
to me.
I don’t understand people who say,
‘talk is cheap, actions speak louder’
The right words,
carefully thought out,
reflected upon,
or,
from the heart–
are not cheap,
they are priceless,
in fact.
As I stumble,
through the valley of grief,
I search for words,
sounds,
and also,
silent action-
symbols,
even.
Support that will keep me,
standing,
going forward.
I have found through,
all this horror,
much support,
and,
love,
for me,
for my friend,
and,
also ugliness,
and greed,
and control freakedness.
I do not wish to dwell,
on the ugly,
the ugly won’t bring comfort.
But,
just as beauty and love,
buoy me,
keep me afloat,
so to,
does,
ugly,
knock me down.
Some people,
roll with the punches,
avoid, duck,
use them for momentum,
I am not one,
of those people,
but,
I can take a punch,
and,
I do heal.
I am not cynical,
I try to understand,
the motivations,
even,
for meanness,
it helps me process,
keeps me standing.
Borrowed words,
original words,
all words,
help us tell the story.
As I stood by Francoys’s bed,
in the hospital and knew,
he was dying,
I kept hearing,
the Billy Joel song,
Only The Good Die Young,
and,
since then,
other words,
have come to me,
fragments,
phrases,
words spoken by poets, writers,
or friends.
Montaigne’s words about friendship,
“If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I.”
― Michel de Montaigne, The Complete Essays
The song from Les Miserables,
Empty Chairs at Empty Tables,
Phantom faces at the windows.
Phantom shadows on the floor.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more.
The,
I Carry Your Heart,
of ee cummings,
and of course,
Auden.
Auden was a cynical old queer,
( I believe he would relish in that description)
often hurt,
as sensitive human beings,
are.
I had lent to my friend,
the anarchist,
a small book,
the Everyman’s library edition of,
W.H Auden: Poems,
on Friday,
the 13 th I got a chance,
to recuperate,
that,
as well as a few other books.
The Auden,
has a ribbon bookmark,
the marked poem,
was,
Funeral Blues.
Words shared, words well spoken,
words planned and sweated over,
yes,
they help,
when your emotions,
stop you from articulating,
You can borrow,
those of others,
and,
a quick mental edit,
results in them,
‘talking’ for you,
helping somehow,
to ‘explain’,
the ‘unexplainable’,
building a foot path,
through,
the valley of grief,
one,
stone step,
at a time.
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
There will be good again,
there is,
and,
once again there will be peace,
and,
happiness,
in the valley,
but,
stumbling around,
mumbling,
confused pain,
is part of the process,
the on going process,
of grief,
indeed of,
living.
Later girls,
BB
