Not a worthy excuse

 

It would make you angry

my not writing

just because

you are gone.

 

You were the one

who so often

encouraged me

inspired me

pushed me

roused me

applauded me.

 

You who were the one

who always

expected more

who insisted

‘you are a better writer

than you believe’.

 

Even on different paths

in recent years

your first question

‘what are you writing?’

your firmest advice

‘write about everything’.

 

It would make you angry

my not writing

just because

you are gone.

 

You would not see

my sorrow

at your passing

as a worthy excuse.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this year last year on the death of a close friend and mentor. Almost on the anniversary I learnt a few days ago of the passing of another friend, not nearly so close, but a friendship that goes back to our teens. A sense of great sorrow. It is a reminder of one’s own mortality when our friends die. Especially when they die before their time.

Art by Anne Magill

 

 

Not a worthy excuse

 

It would make you angry

my not writing

just because

you are gone.

 

You were the one

who so often

encouraged me

inspired me

pushed me

roused me

applauded me.

 

You who were the one

who always

expected more

who insisted

‘you are a better writer

than you believe’.

 

Even on different paths

in recent years

your first question

‘what are you writing?’

your firmest advice

‘write about everything’.

 

It would make you angry

my not writing

just because

you are gone.

 

You would not see

my sorrow

at your passing

as a worthy excuse.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

 

 

 

Letting go

There is a poem by my favourite poet Dylan Thomas which begins:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

It is popularly believed to be an exhortation to his father to fight against death.

My mother needed no such urging. She fought it tooth and nail.

Even when her body was but skin and bone. Even when she had morphed from a human being into a tiny bird lying broken on a wide expanse of white bed. Even when she had slipped into an unconscious state tn which she appeared to recognise no one. Even when she could not even take water, except to wet her thin lips. Even when it seemed impossible that she could still be alive.

She steadfastly refused to let to go. Brave, stubborn, tenacious, determined. And thoroughly unpredictable. My mother facing her demise the way she had lived.

Her children and her late-in-life-lover maintained a vigil that extended long beyond the expectations of medical staff. There was nothing we could do but hold her hand and helplessly bear witness to her last battle.

She most certainly raged against the dying of the light.

Until this morning.

When she finally, peacefully, let go.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Andrew Wyeth

 

 

 

A serious mind

      ‘Sex and death are the only things that can interest a serious mind’

W B Yeats – Quotation  (paraphrased)

 

Photo stolen from Alice in Underland