No Windows

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.