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.
You know I never really knew Paul, but you’ve mentioned him so often over the last few years…the admiration and affection you felt for him as a fellow writer and friend was so apparent. It was also apparent that it was a mutual admiration.
The second section in particular reveals something of him, and knowing you…I wouldn’t be surprised if there are some inside things, shared philosophies perhaps, woven in here and there through the rest of the poem. But what you’ve written hits on many aspects of grief in general, it’s universal in that regard…the bitterness, how so many things we say to find or offer comfort can sound so hollow…and then your own words, ‘Where the body no longer writhes in interminable pain, Longing for release” work their way in. It’s a contradiction of sorts. That’s not a criticism…contradictions are par for the course, we struggle to understand, accept, be tough, seek comfort…in turn, all at once. The third section definitely struck a nerve…that feeling of deep resentment, when it seems like no one else ‘gets it’. So even though you gave some insight into his personality, I think the real tribute is that his absence could trigger so much in the way of emotion, internal dialogue, questioning, reasoning…it’s just as indicative of who he was as a person.
Even though I've never heard of him, your poem was a fantastic tribute to this fellow poet. This was clearly written with passion, and his spirit I'm sure would have been very appreciative and thankful for your poem. Thanks for the read, and keep up the writing! :D
how can he be 'gone' if right this moment his influence continues to spread into the world, through these wondrous acclamations echoing from the walls of the WC...thank you for writing this
This is excellent love!
There is sadness, the taste of life meeting the poignant fact that death returns! The admiration is profound here!
A moving and passionate write sweet, people say remember them for who they were, you have done that, and yet, its ok to say that but it doesn't bring them back! This voices the loss well and reflects an impact that this talented poet made upon you:)
A recongtion here of the cycle of life and unfortunately the expected!
Awesome poem love, you have done a fine poet justice!
xx
I think Paul would have loved this; which goes beyond any critique that I could offer. It's kind of like what Lincoln said about Gettysburg in his famous speech. But Lincoln was wrong about the world little noting nor long remembering his words. I hope Paul's words live on as famously; not only in his own body of work but through the poets and writers that he inspired with his beautiful mind, sharp wit and unique life perspective. All men die and so death becomes of little consequence; it is how they have lived that makes all the difference. Is there life after death? Who knows? Shakespeare's Hamlet asked, "what dreams may come"? But I do know that the impact Paul had on the lives of those around him will not cease simply because he has ceased to be among us. It shan't be taken from us or hidden in some dirty hole in the ground. His words live on in our hearts and minds, on his pages and in his poetry. He was always looking at new venues of immortality; not in a religious pretense but in a concrete body of life's work which he so graciously left behind. In Paul's own words, " If there's one thing I've learned about being a poet, its not about writing a poem but about leaving behind a coherent body of work" Whether we remember the grizzled muzzle and drop tailed gait of the three legged dog side stepping his way into our hearts or the man in grey fedora sipping whiskey in the smoke filled piano bar and arguing with the guitar player that love is not only sad to the broken hearted; we have a part of the man left with us. I chose to post his performance of several of his works to be his eulogy and embedded that on my page like his nature is embedded in my heart and mind. I loved the man, plain and simple and we shared a mutual respect and admiration of one another's work. I never recieved an unkind review from him but many that made me smile in warm understanding. He was one hell of a great poet and a wonderful man. He was honest and real, brilliant and good natured to his friends. He could not bear pretentiousness or pseudo-intellectualism but looked for and related to wisdom and honesty. That is what I remember of and treasured most in the man.
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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