This is no country for old men, no place to gather oneself. Keep one bag loose and ready, a spare toothbrush in a top pocket, cash rolled tightly in your fist.
'Sing, Ballad-singer..
Make me forget.'
Pour, saqi, steadily,
with your open hand.
'These grasses must be made
Of her who often prayed,
Last century for repose;
And the fair girl long ago
Whom I vainly tried to know
May be entering this rose.'
This moment is your life.
The blood of the king is now
a simple poppy in an open field!
(Hardy and Khayyam, more or less, mostly less, since the words, too, are transformed in my mouth).
~
The last performance, the old tunes played with great sadness. Close the books once and for all. And silence falls. The notes are now remembered by your stray heart.
There are no more journeys, just the shadows cast by your absence, in which we make our way. In the evenings, when the day is done, turn down the lights, and sit in the peaceful darkness, wait for the night.
~
It was difficult talking with him-and I'm reluctant to put down these thoughts here-but what can one say after someone has lost their wife, their soul-partner? He told me he lives in a parallel world now; he sees people going about their daily business, laughing even, but none of that is real. He himself has become threadbare, invisible. "No-one can understand." He turns his head away, nearly chews on his fingers, "Death is an ugly thing."
Not knowing what to say, not having any knowledge but that from books (whence the silly profusion of quotes on this blog), I tell him that JCO has written a memoir, the memoir of a widow. "Do people write such things?".
~
I tell a friend-and now regret it: either they're really after you (in which case it's serious) or else you are losing your mind. He blinks rapidly, thoughtlessly, and says: "I'll take the former."
'Sing, Ballad-singer..
Make me forget.'
Pour, saqi, steadily,
with your open hand.
'These grasses must be made
Of her who often prayed,
Last century for repose;
And the fair girl long ago
Whom I vainly tried to know
May be entering this rose.'
This moment is your life.
The blood of the king is now
a simple poppy in an open field!
(Hardy and Khayyam, more or less, mostly less, since the words, too, are transformed in my mouth).
~
The last performance, the old tunes played with great sadness. Close the books once and for all. And silence falls. The notes are now remembered by your stray heart.
There are no more journeys, just the shadows cast by your absence, in which we make our way. In the evenings, when the day is done, turn down the lights, and sit in the peaceful darkness, wait for the night.
~
It was difficult talking with him-and I'm reluctant to put down these thoughts here-but what can one say after someone has lost their wife, their soul-partner? He told me he lives in a parallel world now; he sees people going about their daily business, laughing even, but none of that is real. He himself has become threadbare, invisible. "No-one can understand." He turns his head away, nearly chews on his fingers, "Death is an ugly thing."
Not knowing what to say, not having any knowledge but that from books (whence the silly profusion of quotes on this blog), I tell him that JCO has written a memoir, the memoir of a widow. "Do people write such things?".
~
I tell a friend-and now regret it: either they're really after you (in which case it's serious) or else you are losing your mind. He blinks rapidly, thoughtlessly, and says: "I'll take the former."
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