There is a story in every poetry.
My cousin Heamus, 28, was diagnosed with leukaemia, final stage,
on September, 2005. The last five months of life he spent
on a hospital bed, putting up with the idea of dying;
during that time, he wrote me a letter monthly,
expressing thoughts about his own Death,
which occured on January, 2006, while
he was writing one more letter.
He never finished it.
He just started to be a man;
but what a man! I believe he never
knew turpitude or anger. He was a giver
and a lover. Moonstruck, as well. I just couldn’t
enter his hospital room. I stepped back from the door
so many times. I devoured his letters. As I was reading them
again and again, they were converting into lines. Which I wrote
down. It felt like I was living myself with the Death under my pillow.
There is a poetry in every story.
September: no known names
Dare to imagine: blood, flesh, bones,
so many needles in the stones
of whispers. The tiles bemoans,
the wheelchair lispers. To that attune
the screaking, yellow, heavy moon,
sleeping over a grim pontoon,
the dark and putrid, sapless water,
this doctor here, ready to slaughter
my corpse and leave shortly after…
I wish I were a song to fly,
to leave away without goodbye
and never ever come nearby!
For me to die, is there an aim?
I’d call on somebody, to blame!
I can’t remember any name…
Dare to imagine: Death’s the same.
October: no more dance
The winter occurs with furies, bedazzling the sphere.
After all the wonders I’ve lived in New Britain,
after all the poems I have never written,
after all the sunsets I have wept with fear
for arriving darkness…
Looming from the rear,
here she comes departing for another riot,
with the eyes of a swan, hungry, sick and quiet,
begging me to stay! Fibbing to my ears…
I begun being emptied of the slumbered years!
But don’t you stop, keep lying, sing, swing and laugh,
have a child with me, let me cop the plea! Although
time’s up, says cancer…
I could never dance again
with the glorious light from my bloated vein.
Soon, I shall switch my soul for a fist of earth.
To a dove of roses our love gives birth.
Take me in your arms one last time and crave.
Alas, I have to look for a gilded grave!
The moon went to sleep on a frozen wave.
November: no way back
’T is a butterfly effect,
or all just turns in ember.
Who brawls me this lullaby
and offers molten amber?
Death’s comin’: heavy steps
pacing over my traces.
I’ll be going on my way,
whitening all the faces.
Don’t cry, don’t call on me,
don’t beckon, don’t despair!
Memory’s a pain. We are
not anymore a pair.
A stone I’ll be, a blade,
a bird, a briar… Bygone
wishes having a parade –
but nothing I require.
No way back,
December: no longer a crime
For you I’m waiting every night,
till night is crawling out of sight.
Each morn for you I wait thus far,
till morn is playing the guitar.
It’s you I’m calling every night,
with wrath, with fear, with delight!
And every dawn I call on you!…
(Screams and tears added to.)
Hail! I’d like to linger a rhyme
to which we could dance cheek to cheek
while our bodies each other would seek!
To love you’s no longer a crime.
Embark the wherry and be merry!
I do not actually know Mary,
did I ever loved some Beth?
It’s only you, forever: Death!
What does the moon lie on the aerie?
January: not completed
You, Death, uninvited you came and nestled under my
I have acrid dew on my lips, the words are burning
pregnant words, ripe fruits with golden worms
My blood is a flower dispersing its seeds over
The swans can’t beat the mist and upon
sick night, dense dark. Am I affraid of
I wana reap a basket of stars from
imprisoned memories visiting
stepped on nails and stars
My wings are hurting
cancer got hungry
I did not wield