I have lost another friend. February was filled with sadness, and, to be honest, sadness is not something I commit to poetry. I know it's a way of comforting oneself, but reading such lines later brings it all back and I want to escape.
In 2000 a college friend died. I had not seen her for some years. She was an alcoholic and I must honestly say that I refused her invitation to go and live in her house and maybe start a voice school together because I could not face life with someone who tried to comfort herself with vodka and never found enough solace to stop drinking. What a waste! Like an old friend I visited last year, who - late in life - had married a drinker and was doing her best to keep up with him(!) - well, that's the impression I got. She laughed at me because I did not drink much alcohol. I've never really enjoyed it and would never want to get blotto to compensate for anything - blanking out pain and depression were never part of my programme. Alongside those alcohol misusages are, of course, personality problems I'd like to analyse, but won't.
The friend who died on 24th January 2015 did not drink any alcohol. She was ill with several complaints and went through a lot of pain and frustration for at least 2 years preceding her death. I'm comforted by the fact that she had a good life until her sickness caught up with her. And I'm sure she was thankful to be painfree at last. But what a price to have to pay!
So I spent half February in the UK, attending her funeral and being company for her partner, who was covering her own devastation rather successfully with actionism, and still is.
I went through life never thinking it could end, but of course it will. What can I leave behind? Not much that will be of any use financially. But I write, I paint, and I arrange music (I'd compose more, but and at least I can get my arranged work performed by my chorus). I'm painting in oils now. I've spent my clothes allowance on equipment (mainly paints and brushes) this month. But paintings are energy. I can give my energy to anyone who gets or buys one of my paintings. And my novels amuse me, so that's a good reason to go on writing.
But this is a poetry blog, so I'll post another older poem until the muse kisses me and I can write something new.
~~~
These poems are dated. I was, as usual, alone. I wandered the streets and went to the main square so that I would not be on my own when 1999 turned into 2000. Then I went home and switched on the computer. Everything worked. All the pessimism about the system not being competent to cope with a new millenium were wrong. Laughable now, but computer users were anxious!
December 31st 1999
There will be no more
Mondays for me,
For I will be sitting
in the apple tree,
And watching the way I used to watch.
There will be no more
Tuesdays for me,
For I will be standing
on the sandy shore,
And singing the songs I
used to sing.
There will be no more
Wednesdays for me,
For I will be walking
through the woods,
And kissing the friends
I used to kiss.
There will be no more
Thursdays for me,
For I will be listening
to symphonies,
And shedding the tears I
used to shed.
There will be no more
Fridays for me,
For I will be climbing
the highest hills,
And treading the paths
I used to tread.
There will be no more
Saturdays for me,
For I will be
whispering in the dark,
And telling the secrets
I used to tell.
There will be no more
Sundays for me,
For all is silent and
still and peace,
And I am in the place
where I want to be.
January 1st 2000
And now the infant
epoch is born at last.
We have shed a tear for
times of yore,
A droplet of mourning
for tyranny and treachery.
Some have even promised
to do better this time.
As midnight crept
across the earth,
The sky was shot with a
myriad of coloured stars
That almost eclipsed
the heavenly ones.
But not quite, and only
for a moment.
The silver stars that
glimmer on cloudless nights
Were there before the
age of man began,
And will be there when
all our millenniums,
And all our centuries,
And all our Januarys
have gone, forever
Lost in the myriad of
stars we did not create.
January 2nd 2000
The party is over.
The streets are empty,
But the echoes of a
thousand cheers
Can still be heard.
Nobody was invited,
But nearly everybody
came.
Anticipation drove them
here
To see what there would
be to see,
To drink and laugh,
And pass the time of
night.
I came, too.
I came alone, my
footsteps hurrying and
“Don’t be late” upon my
lips.
But late for what?
Unrecognized, I passed
along,
My voice unheard above
the deafening screech
Of pop music,
artificially merry,
Crying out the turn of
the year, century, millennium,
With all its legacy of
guilt and misery.
A new beginning for
all?
Another chance for me?
After the fireworks I
turned my steps toward home.
Where did all the
coloured stars come from?
Where did they go?
There is no moon, and
not one of the silver heavenly stars is visible.
They are hiding behind
the saturated clouds,
And I am hiding behind
a mask of obligatory jollity.
I have survived.
We have all survived to
tell this tale.
January 2nd 2000
I have seen the light
As bright as day and
brighter,
But the darkness is
brighter still.
Creating creation,
Burning manmade light
and shade
For ever entwined.
I try to remember the
new years of long ago,
When we raised our
china teacups
And made our
resolutions,
Solemnly discarded our
shortcomings,
And vowed to keep our promises.
Each new beginning was
but another ending.
Had I known then what I
know now,
I would have treasured
those endings more.
But fate decrees that I
cannot revive them.
I only know that time
cannot stand still
And did not stand still
in those days, either.
But instead thrust me
from that life into this one,
And will go on
thrusting me forward.
There never was a
turning back.
In the past lies the
future.
Present and past give
birth to that future,
But cannot nurture it.
