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| A Tree In Late Fall |
Having witnessed the passing of my dear husband, Tim, 3 years ago to cancer, one might think I am a veteran to grief; however, the sad truth is, that I can offer nothing very profound. The one truth I realize is that time is a precious commodity and we ought not waste it worrying about what other's might think of how we live or what we do. Instead, I prefer to spend my time creating and trying to express my emotions, inadequate as my efforts seem.
My dad was a lifelong writer, and he did for a profession and hobby, that which makes me feel small and vulnerable, write, putting his soul out there, exposed for all to see and judge. Journalism, poetry, fiction, oh, how he loved it all! Once, Dad asked me why I stopped writing poetry, and I didn't want to admit it, but I was afraid. Fear to have my brain naked and stripped down for all to see had paralyzed me in a web of procrastination and inactivity. Today, I intend to embark of a voyage of celebrating life through words and art. I hope others can join me, too, as we struggle with the nagging fact that death waits for all of us, and choose not to dwell on that, but focus on what we have today, trite as that may seem.
Dad, Tim, and everyone who has gone, I don't know where you are now, or spiritually how to cope with death, but I miss you, even the souls I have never met. I miss your joys, and tragedies, the things you built, the love, and the darkness, surrounding you. I am not perfect, and neither were you, nor anyone on this earth, but together, let us enjoy the moment and the power we have to create.
-Clare Corcoran
Nov. 24th 2013
Beautifully put. Not much more can be said, a lot to be felt. You are a woman of courage, you bless me. Thank you for sharing Clare.
ReplyDeleteClare, I am Gary Doyle, a dear friend of your dad's. I love your dad and have not yet come to grips with, or processed our loss. Thank you for your blog. If I may, I would like to share memories and quotes from my friend and maybe a few poems. I am still mourning
ReplyDeleteThe Thomas Tree
ReplyDeleteIn November
My friend, Tom Brooker died suddenly.
Tom,
You should have sent a warning, said
“Well, I’m leaving now.
I’m cashing in my chips.
Good by, Good by.
Good by.
I’ll leave you to edit this,
My hundreds of poems, my stories, my visage
In the mirror, my toys and gadgets left in my room,
My books, and letters
The litter left of my life”
II
Of all the lines from your poems
I remember this one best, ‘I love Dianne,’ you said.
“I love Dianne”
That’s as right as it gets, Tom,
To love someone, some lovely entity but self,
An argument against the solipsist,
To reach out your hand and say
And say ‘I do not nor wish to understand.’
I simply love Dianne.
III
Last October, by pure coincidence,
While walking my little dog, Sophie,
Stopping at the corner of Forest and Florence Avenues
I touched the gnarled bark of a small walnut tree.
I wasn’t thinking of you.
It was pure unordained coincidence,
This will be the Thomas Tree, I said.
So now, each morning, after coffee,
Walking about, planning my daily agenda,
I say, ‘Morning Thomas Tree, we are out for a walk,
Sophie and me.
It isn’t you. I know it isn’t you, Tom,
But why the hell isn’t it?
IV
When I was ten
While walking through the morning fields,
I remember stretching out my arms
And blessing everything.
I blessed the reddish sky, the woods,
The flowers upon the field,
The birds upon the wire.
I was a weird kid.
I thought that within my innocence
I had the power of Being,
Being something beyond a carbon smear
V
OK, Tom, here I am. Listen up.
I’m waving my hands in the air,
I’m touching your smiling face.
I’m holding you.
I’m bouncing you in space.
I am believing.
I am not believing.
I’m believing in what I do not believe.
In silliness I am waving my hands in the yard.
My neighbors come out,
Look on me in dismay.
I want to say something back,
To dig through my linguistic repertoire
Of what I really think of them
And say “Fuck you.”
I don’t care anymore. Fuck this mess of scum,
This brutal human beast,
within which, perhaps
I must,
still need to live among.
VI
I tried to pick a final verse, a final word, a salutation,
But couldn’t, of course.
I think, “Well, I love you, Tom.”
But that’s not enough.
Not enough for life or for the poem.
Maybe I should just go back in the yard,
Or leash up Sophie
And walk back to the Thomas Tree,
Maybe hold up my hands and wish for God,
Maybe join the church and wish for you,
Pretend these robed souls speak true,
Pretend these cold branches envelope your soul,
Oh, wait, wait,
Wait,
I meant to say our souls.,
Our souls, Tom,
That’s what I meant to say,
Our souls
Scattered like leaves upon the ground.
VII
I knew something before you were born, Tom,
I knew it as sure as my warm blood
As sure as my warm, warm blood,
And as sure as you knew it too.
There is no independent existence.
There is no business but poetry
Oh, Tom, we live but in sadness and words.