MH - 2023
I attended a funeral the other day… It was for Poetry.
I had seen and heard the many loudly proclaimed notices in the preceding twenty-four hours… endless litanies featuring ancient men droning direful dirges in monotones…
Once upon a time Poetry was…. Poetry once was… Poetry was once… Poetry was a noble Art… Poetry was young and free… Poetry was once everywhere heard about… Poetry was Free… Poetry was for You and for Me.
Poetry is Dead
A sad Day is come
Tragedy has befallen Us
Our Noble Friend
Is Done and Gone
Come one
Come all
Let us farewell Poetry
In proper pomp
Only good style
Poetry rests now
May Poetry Rest In Peace
At The Graves Funeral Home
12 pm this Saturday
I listened at first with a degree of amusement… I had heard many such proclamations over the years. And inevitably normally they were all just some gimmicky marketing campaign or an invitation from some hothead for debate and derision. Been there, done that.
Yet as the announcements continued to be endlessly plastered across my screens and my phone, I felt an increasing befuddlement… which grew into an irritation… “Idiots… as per normal broadcasting nonsense. What happened to fact-checking these days? Where is the Fourth Estate?”
The source of my irk was that I was a Poet. So clearly there was some serious error occurring. Poetry couldn’t be dead if there was a Poet. Could It?
Now I am a Poet… and the crux of my work is to specialize in original and creative ideas… And admittedly, some are winners and some are losers. And I have learned to take some of my conclusions with a grain of salt. However, I am thinking… (Unless there is some logical error in my reasoning) …as long as there remains at least one Poet still writing, then Poetry can’t be dead.
I felt like running through the streets screaming aloud… Poetry is not Dead… But I managed to restrain myself. Over lunch, I looked at my latest Poem… First Flower… about the first ever flower. Every new one was a favorite… but this one was especially favourite… A Poet can have more than one favourite… Can’t he?
“I must attend this sorry affair and inform someone there of the tragic error that was about to take place. A true travesty, so tragic and ironic as to be comedic. There has to be some terrible mix-up. And, if Poetry wasn’t dead??? Then why the funeral?”
And more ominously… dun… dun… dun… “Who was being dead and buried?”
So on the allotted day of internment, I carefully prepared for the funeral. Surely on such an eminent occasion, every important personality of all flavours and dimensions would be there. It wouldn’t do to look shabby. After all one must represent the Profession.
So I carefully crafted my dress, and I worried and wavered over style and manner… Wig and Powder and Mask, all Romantic… or maybe a spacesuit, all MetaPhysical… It was a funeral, so I stuck with a black sombre suit adorned with a red rose in the lapel… Us Poets have a lot of Love.
Before venturing out my door, I carefully checked my Membership Card in the International Poetry Association… Noting with pride that it was Number 1111 and with wry satisfaction that it was still current. Well, at least till dues were due in 2024.
As I trekked to The Graves, my thought was on the dearly departed – Poetry… And under my breath, I recited Sir Sidney’s immortal Verse…
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain…
Arriving at my destination apparently the terminus for Poetry, I was totally underwhelmed by the crowds and the atmosphere. The lack of them; For in fact there were none.
Outside, there was no noise. Outside, there were no crowds. There wasn’t even any traffic, save for a lone homeless man, who sat back against the wall. He was swigging an indeterminate bottle and intermittently playing a steel harmonica emitting mournful tones… The tunes sang the Walking Blues…
I woke up this mornin', feelin' round for my shoes
Know 'bout 'at I got these, old walkin' blues
Woke up this mornin', feelin' round for my shoes
But you know 'bout 'at I, got these old walkin' blues
“I must be late… Everyone must be inside already. I had better hurry…” I thought, rushing to The Graves. But I was sorely wrong, for inside was also a very solemn and a very lonesome affair, I the only mourner. Inside there was only I, and a coffin, which the sign stood besides read…
Sir Poetry
Unknown to 2023
I was saddened beyond words already being in tears… Here lay Poetry and yet not a Human had paid heed or attended respect. Present company accepted of course. Before me stood a monumental mahogany coffin, that looked a sure hand me down from Count Dracula.
It was festooned with wreaths and garlands and masses of roses and it was adorned with immaculate little Greeting Cards… heralding farewells. Reaching to one, I read in the Poetic…
Poetry is Dead
What took You so long
Even You can’t beat mortality
All Verse gets worn
Welcome to ForLorn
Intrigued and grieving aggrieved, I lifted the lid of the coffin. I have to see inside. “Who has seen the face of Poetry? I can’t recall. It has been awhile.”
Gazing within, expectation and anticipation my palpable companions, I espy a decrepit old crone… eyes closed, arms crossed across the chest. At my sight there definitely appeared no breath there.
Age had been an eraser wrinkling features and genders… Diminutive was the distinctive impression. Gaunt almost a ragdoll, and made up with so much make-up so as to make an actress blush.
Now, I was sure that a mistake had been made. There was no Life here. Not even the barest hint or glimmer. Just an ancient wastrel, posing, unknown and unloved. Disgusted… Angered… I went to slam the coffin lid down… The irony, the tragedy, the comedy, it was all too much, even for one with a Poetic bent.
“Who would even joke about this? I want to know!!!”Down I shoved the lid hard…
And just then a small slim hand snatched out… catching the lid and stopping it from closing… For a split second, I played tug-a-war with a corpse… A very strong corpse, for I quickly lost. Flying aback, shocked and aghast… as before me arose as if from the dead - apparently Poetry.
In startlement, I gasped… forming into a scream… as the reborn corpse opened eyes and began to speak to me. Soothingly and in a refined voice… “Shhhhh… You poor Soul. Shhhh… My Dear Soul. Shhhh… Please do not fear. I am so glad to see you. Your presence here with Me in these final moments is so very dear to Me, so very dear indeed. It has revived a spark in Me, call it the death rattle of an old Poet. Please sit awhile with Me.”
Even in my troubled state, I knew not to argue with the Dead, much less with Poetry, so I grabbed a chair from the many vacancies and pulled up next to the coffin. “This should be interesting.” I warned myself internally. As a Writer, you get to meet some strange characters.
“Do you have a handkerchief by any chance, my good fellow? This whole get-up is a tad uncomfortable, not to mention very embarrassing.” The corpse amiably enquired. And, as if I were commonly used to speaking corpses, I nodded silently and meekly handed over my monogrammed silk.
“Thank You, My Friend. I have never been able to stand cosmetics. They always give Me this terrible rash… as if I have entertained a sudden visit from the bees and their Queen upon my face.” The corpse grinned broadly and spoke on… whilst expertly removing his make-up grime.
“You look a fine young lad, a bit on the skinny side if I may say so… but you have bright eyes… furious in frenzy… not of anger but of ideas crafted in words… I know that look… You be a Poet. I am sure of It. Tell Me, come on, Tell Me… Its true.”
There was no longer a pale ashen corpse arrayed before me, now there was apparently a man… small-like almost a dwarf with curling moustaches and side-burns. He had piercing beady eyes which flicked ceaselessly back and forth as if greedy to catch the last glimpse of Life. This same pair of eyes now bore on me, demanding some sort of response… seemingly saying… Surely, a Poet has Voice.
Stammering a reply… “I… I am a Poet. You have a remarkable eye.” Eagerly I fished out my Membership Card in the International Poets Association… Beaming, I showed him… “See… I am actually The Poet. See… Number 1111.”
Now having found my errant voice, I found my reason and my anger too… “And You? Pray tell, Who are You? You are clearly somewhat alive and I am a Poet, so clearly Poetry is not Dead. What exactly is going on? What is the meaning of all this? You had better tell me, and quickly, or else…”
Clearly concerned, the man gently spoke… He was good at that… “Calm down, My young Friend. Please calm yourself down. I am indeed Poetry, and you are indeed right, Poetry is not dead.”
“Poetry can never truly die. You and I know this with solid certainty for We are Poets. The Poetic is a Spirit named Zeitgeist, and Poetry simply its clothing in each time and space. You and I know that Spirit is Eternal. It cannot die.” Poetry shone as he spoke in truthful triumph.
Poetry verbose as ever continued on… “People forget so quickly… becoming blind even to the obvious. Proclaiming and lamenting the dearth and death of Poetry, alwhilst in truth, Poetry is everywhere… infusing modern Life… It is etched in the graffiti on dingy toilet doors… It is commercialized in hit songs… It is in every advertisement… It is in every letter… It is in every love story… and in every Eulogy.”
Poetry coughed then… a big ahem of painful phlegm… that sounded like a terminal case of adverbs and adjectives… I was worried then… and Poetry said… “There is not much time now. I am all mixed up now… like a dictionary without an index… Come… Come embrace Me… for We are Brothers…”
Moved and obligated, I rose from my chair and grasped Poetry to Me… and in my arms I saw Poetry… perfectly inscribed imperfectly… feeble and fragile, precious and precocious… curious and playful, sassy and mad… a child. Poetry just looked at Me sweetly, his glance so grateful… then Poetry slowly closed his eyes.
As Poetry’s eyes dropped heavy-lidded closed… I saw Poetry’s last exhalation leave him like a fine mist… which swirled and whirled and settled around me… I felt the warmest softest hug and as I breathed deeply in… Ahhhh…
Explosions of sensations went off in my mind… every conceivable colour, I could see… Every knowable word, I knew… Every sublime sound, I heard… Even subtle sensation, I felt…
Adrift in this kaleidoscope realm, I tenderly lowered the empty corpse back into the coffin. Poetry was gone but was not dead. With a final Blessing given, I turned heel and dashed away from there. It felt now somehow the scene of a crime. But who was the victim?
Racing back to my abode, I stashed quickly away my tops and tails, and sat again at my desk. With Pen in hand, I wrote as Zeitgeist dictated… POETRY IS NOT DEAD.
Image: Angel Mourner by Kathy Fornal
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