It's longer than my usu stuff, but broke it up into parts.
He's dead.
No deep metaphors No sly allusions No masking imagery
He's dead.
No theological conjecture No philosophical consolations No poetic catharsis
Platitudes are necessary lies
He's dead.
It's science It's math
Life ≤ Death
Even Pi is more eternal Its unfathomable tail Trailing into infinity
He doesn't.
Some will counter
'His dreams live on'
I don't.
His dreams parish with him Like all sustenance inside A broken fridge
His unique blend of passion Humor and insight, joie de vivre
Gone.
No other way to put it.
No euphemisms to deceive:
"passed away" "moved on" "rests in peace" "crossed over" "departed" "returned home" "dwells in the bosom of God"
He's dead. He's fucken dead
Paul is dead.
Now we only have left overs A tribute albumPictures of boats Relics from Troy
No, the person Paul is dead.
His beauty exploded Like shrapnel, it's lodged Inside our minds
His essence diluted Like a once vast shimmering ocean forking, forking into manifold rivers, creeks, brooks
Rushing, flowing, trickling Through our trembling body
Then
II.
He fell from a great height, literally Dreaming to his death
In his journey, he flew high Above his beloved Australia Crossing shadowy plains and dusky hills Until finally he whisked over An aqua-blue undulating radiance Seemingly gliding beneath him He graciously moved, a torrent Brushing his craggy scruffy face Towards that bronze haze Of setting sun He converged on its illumination Not some artificially constructed Light at the end of the tunnel Not synapses snapping And neurons desperately convulsing He swam through that soft sky To the imminent sun
The jagged rocks cracked his skull Awakening him to a new being
Where the body no longer writhes in interminable pain
Where the light and warmth far-flung Across the dark empty boundless universe
Coalesces
III.
There's a stoic in me stirring:
Do not weep, for death is inevitable The cessation of sensation, thus, suffering It should be endured magnanimously As if it were just another autumn day
There's a monk in me murmuring:
Death and Life are one, it is a cycle Perpetual as the four seasons Weep not, for you do not weep when winter Numbs your limbs or frosts your lips
But I am not wise enough to remain unmoved I am not a stone or a grain of sand in a zen garden I will sob in spite of protestations No one rebukes the clouds for raining Nor the rose for wilting when it snows I will grieve selfishly and dramatically I will pound my chest and yank my roots I will wail like a madman in a padded cell I will be inconsolable and pitiful I will be the lowliest creatures, forlorn I will wear black, smoke and swig all night I will brawl for the slightest of provocations I will stay aloof from those closest to me I will be judged and scorned by martians Poking and prodding, but never understanding Truly, they will retort 'it's not the first death' And I will either nod silently or spit in their faces I will make no apologies for my tears I will store them in a glass jar and exhibit them Like an urn on the mantle, there, next to the tv For everyone displayed while they're laughing at game shows
IV.
Death adds another layer Of meaning to facts An extra wave That resonates Through the body Like a bell - rung It is like discovering A new interpretation Of an artwork That deepens understanding That some how amplifies Our humanity Then one wonders How can I have gone So long in ignorance? How can I have staggered Like a cripple? Feeling only the echoes Of songs, the texture Of dry brittle leaves Hearing only the howling Of the whipping wind Seeing only the shadows Of passing birds Touching words Like an illiterate fumbling His fingers over braille The fullness of life Ripens only with death Death is the space That frames a statue Without it, life is Simply 2-dimensional An object perceived, half-felt Not a subject, wholly Encompassing For this gift bestowed I thank you, Death. Death.
V.
Here lies Paul Squires Matador of desires
Chugging with the crew Writing for the few
Like his three-legged mutt on the street Shadowing the drunk in retreat
Back to his piss-soiled alley Not some green blossomed valley
Not some mansion up hill Nor some beach house to kill
But on the high perilous mast He sings, roars, thunders full-blast
Here lies forever forever Paul Squires Sailor of fires
Paul Squires, AKA, Paul Gingatao, AKA Ghost of Pauls, died, and this is my tribute to him. He was an awesome person and poet, and deserves a better elegy, but here it is anyways.
Me rambling about the person, poetry, and background of the piece
Me reading it to Beethoven's 7th, 2nd Mov (Allegretto)
In case you want to know more about him, I strongly recommend you click on this link: paulgingatoa Or you can just hear the podcast on my profile to listen to his talent.
Here are two reflections on him here that I know of:
i visited the link, wow, wish i knew this man before hand.
critique: "Pie" mathmatically is "Pi" that is all for editing
content: a bittersweet eulogy, an honest one, and i love the dig on those obligatory euphamisms on death. so many times, and well meant, these idiots clammer to wish you well and sometimes make you feel worse. i don't care if "god called them home" or if "they're in a better place" or any of that bullshit. dead is dead. a finality for the living. sure they may go on somewhere else, but they're not here and that's what matters most to the survivors.
honestly an excellent write, my new friend, i felt the tears, heard the teeth gritting, and felt the warmth you felt for him.
wow....I hate that word and yet it-is what it is. Painful-=angry..laced with emotion --a hands tied anguish-----no control. And yet we wordsmiths are indeed the definition of arcanum ascendency.....your tribute though filled to the brim with dolour is an ardent lament to Pauls......"muchness".
Reading this reminds me very strongly of how I felt after two of my friends died-the way they just suddenly aren't there anymore and there is nothing that can soften that absolute reality, the way it reminds you of the fragility, the transience...you put it into words in a way I never managed at that time.
i haven't been on here in an age and this came as a shock - i worked on a few projects with paul and he was a great guy and a great writer and thinker who pushed at the boundaries and really was very generous.
ahhh this is a beautiful tribute to someone i never knew. your descriptions brought the memory of him to life, however.
i also am one who dislikes euphemisms for something that feels so stark. no need to couch it inside flowery terms to "soften the blow". no fripperies or cliches. it is what it is. heartbreaking. that alone is enough.
each part is wonderful, unique and full all on its own merits, yet as a whole, express and explore the many layers of grief one feels at the death of someone who has touched one's life so indelibly (as he obviously has yours).
Because I wasn't introduced to paul before reading your tribute I think I can critique it objectively. I wouldn't change a thing. Not one word. I loved it. I reallly loved how it passed thorugh phases. Each section could have been written by a different poet, but it still read like someone -one person- writing at different stages of reaction. It made me reflect on when I've lost someone close and how I certainly passed through stages on how I felt about it/understood it. Not nessasarily the stages of grief, though you could tease that out if you wanted to, but perhaps various modes of comprehension/ reaction to our experience with death...
Very well done.
I rarely read poems more than once or twice, but this is one I will revisit...
One of the most astounding tributes to a life that impacted many and will live on through wonderful words..........every reviewer before me as said all that needs to be said. Absolutely struck with awe.
No euphemisms to deceive:
"passed away"
"moved on"
"rests in peace"
"crossed over"
"deceased"
"returned home"
"dwells in the bosom of God"
A different kind of tribute to someone you respected
Death is not the end but merely a translation to a different form of being.
inevitably bodies wear out and die or are killed accidentally. Of little importance we go on.As I believe reborn again as someone else somewhere else
I must say this is the deepest and the most incredible eulogy / tribute I've ever read in ages... You sure written it so perfectly well, which I'm pretty sure that Paul would be enternal grateful for your thoughts toward him, his life, and his death...
Overall, it sure is nicely done and I'll bet after people see your works, they sure as hell will hire you to create the eulogy for them... I know that, because I would hire you, too as well...
Each part of the poem had a moment or two which were like finding different hearts giving each a vital pulse to the poem. I did like the repetition of phrases in the last part of "there's a monk..." because it seemed like a litany. The repetition of dead, he's dead, in the first part was hard to get used to, but I think I know where you're going with it. There are parts that are too fleshy; you could cut some words out or condense. But over all, I think it was a great moving (both sentimentally and pacing-wise) and shifting peace. The subject ran through out like a silver thread, but each poem was different, refreshing. Reading it felt like playing with a Rubik's cube, the last part of the poem being when the colors aligned.
The part about death being the space that frames a statue when it's not there rang true to me. I had my own theory about not just death, but about uncanny effects in poetry and fiction. I interpret that feeling as a cutout of, let's say, a star on paper. The star is not there, but but the shape of it's absence we know what was there beforehand, leaving clashing sentiments of recognition, assurance, loss, and melancholy. That was one of my favorite parts of the poem (I also liked the jars on the mantle, and the essence diluting like ocean into rivers through our bodies...and the list could go on for a while).
Si se puede
I'm doing more multimedia stuff. Engaging. Experimenting. Expanding.
Check out my pieces below; It's 2020 not 1820. Time for change.
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