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.
That was beautiful man. One can only hope that the life they live warrants a tribute of this magnitude and depth after they pass into the other life. I admire the respect you had for this man and it certainly translated into your piece...makes me wish i knew him too. He seems like a cynnical person, one that prefers to be blatantly honest rather than to lie (based on your quotation of him) and i respect that in people. Thanks for sharing bro. keep up the good work.
It is an extremely rare thing that I read a lengthy poem like this, and wish that it wouldn't end.
This was beautiful, and incredible tribute and eulogy. It is simply said, beautifully put, and altogether filled with emotion. I almost feel like I know the man. Not his past or personality, but the feelings and thoughts he evoked in others. Great piece. Thank you for sharing.
And the review that's he wrote? I have a feeling that I know who it was to. I wanted to say something along those lines, haha.
An actual review Paul gave to another poet on here, (and why he eventually left the Cafe probably) classic:
"I think the reason most people give you good reviews is because you are so popular as a result of spamming every new arrival that they are embarrassed to admit they dont understand what the hell you are trying to say. Dress it up with fonts and trickery all you like, most of what you write makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. I am intelligent well-read and vastly experienced poet and I am willing to say that it is not my lack of understanding that makes your writing impenetrable, it is your inability (or reluctance) to actually say anything. Now you can go all modernist and existential on me, but the fact is if you didnt spam the living f**k out of your work noone would read it and everyone would be willing to say that it makes no sense." ---Paul Squires
thanks for educating us of someone that some of us like me; are not familiar with his work
all writers live on through their pieces; but not every one receives the recognition or opportunity to make a living from it
his life is a sign of hope and inspiration
its true...he's dead
but his writing lives on
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.
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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