Sunday, April 17, 2005

when i die

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

(Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself")

Some years ago, back when I was with C., a phone call came in the night. His grandmother had died. She'd been quite sick for a while. C's parents had been taking care of her, at home, and she'd finally passed away. They held a memorial service for her in the summer. It was the most beautiful thing of its sort I've ever been to. No priest and no body (she'd already been cremated), just all her family and friends, gathered in a white tent in her backyard, sharing memories. A string quartet played (she'd known the violinist, who once gave lessons to C.). She seems to have been an extraordinary woman. She was an avid birdwatcher. She took walks (in the mountains of Pennsylvania). She kept journals. She knew everyone. After her husband died, she took a bunch of classes at the college where C's father (her son) taught. One of the classes was an American poetry class. She loved Whitman.

In her last days, C's mother was spending a lot of time at her house. She'd read to her. Just days before her death, they finished Leaves of Grass. C's mother read this poem (an excerpt from "Song of Myself") at the memorial service. It's the most beautiful send-off I can imagine.

poetrymonth

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