This is a poem about the death of a friend of mine a few years ago in what I consider to have been horrific circumstances. It has been a long time incubating – as if the event caused a narrowing around itself of the arteries that carry words.
Having written the poem I also wondered if I should share something so bleak. Isn’t there enough that is difficult for us all to contend with without adding to it?
But in the event it did not feel like I had much of a choice – I felt compelled to get it ‘out there’, in this small way.
So much of writing seems to be about finding a way out. Finding a way to open windows and release the thoughts and feelings that refuse to remain bottled inside and are pressing to be included in the outside pool we all share. I would not want the flow into this pool to be restricted just to that which is joyful /pleasant/uplifting – that way, in my view, the water is in danger of becoming too shallow or even of drying up altogether. The pool needs to be sourced by the full range of our truth. And perhaps, too, our joys are only made possible through contrast.
No Windows No windows in the room that he died in no natural light no day time, no night just an airless stench of blight and machines wired in tight and his mind and his might and his insides in plight with no outside in sight no saving insight he lost his long fight in the room with no windows that he died in. No soul in the room that he died in no release and no healing just white walls and ceiling and a body beyond repair and nobody there just the silent shout of my hopeless despair. No place for a soul to reside in and no way to get out of the room with no outside where he died before he died. Much later I met up with myself in the hospital car park and looked for the stars so that I could worship them for both of us.