Sorry that yesterday's post was sort of like me wandering about moodily on the surface of a distant planet. The loss of my high school friend sort of shook me a little bit. I knew that he was seriously ill, but, like most people, I let life get in the way of something very important, namely visiting him. Now, I have to live with that regret for the rest of my life.
Today, I wrote a poem for my friend. I often find that, when I'm struggling with some difficult emotions, writing about it helps. As I was working on the poem below, I found myself feeling much closer to him, remembering moments that had long been out of my head. It helped me, and I hope it honored him.
Now, I have to prepare for meeting with my book club group to discuss Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House. I've made some crescent weenies, or, as a friend calls them, swines in a swaddle. The book club guide is printed and ready to go. Soon, I will be surrounded by people whom I truly love.
I am suck a lucky man. I know this.
Saint Marty just needs to be reminded every once in a while.
All Souls’ Day
by: Martin Achatz
for Tim, November 2, 2019
My old friend, gone today,
on the morning of All Souls’,
when we light candles,
toll bells, call out names,
like parents shout for kids
at dusk, remind them
about the boiled beef that waits.
Those kids drag themselves back,
sit at tables, before their plates,
prod with forks, strip away
residue of carrot, potato, cabbage,
until all that remains is meat,
sleeved in gravy, muscular,
shining, and brown, looking
as if it is just resting
for a few moments before
it rises, returns to green fields
of grass, alfalfa, troughs
overflowing with water
so cold it steams in evening
light. I will say your name
one last time, old friend, on this day
of saying names, Don’t look back
when you hear me call. I know
time is short, and the leaves
flame beneath your kicking feet.
Run. Be free. The neighborhood is full
of other kids, singing Kyrie eleison,
down the road that I must travel
in the last moments before dinner,
when the back doors will open,
and you will all be called home.
on the morning of All Souls’,
when we light candles,
toll bells, call out names,
like parents shout for kids
at dusk, remind them
about the boiled beef that waits.
Those kids drag themselves back,
sit at tables, before their plates,
prod with forks, strip away
residue of carrot, potato, cabbage,
until all that remains is meat,
sleeved in gravy, muscular,
shining, and brown, looking
as if it is just resting
for a few moments before
it rises, returns to green fields
of grass, alfalfa, troughs
overflowing with water
so cold it steams in evening
light. I will say your name
one last time, old friend, on this day
of saying names, Don’t look back
when you hear me call. I know
time is short, and the leaves
flame beneath your kicking feet.
Run. Be free. The neighborhood is full
of other kids, singing Kyrie eleison,
down the road that I must travel
in the last moments before dinner,
when the back doors will open,
and you will all be called home.
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