It was at my Grandfather's funeral while the minister was delivering the eulogy that I first heard my Granddad was a writer. I was 18 at the time and this came as complete suprising news to me.
'...although never published, Mr Robinson was a prolific writer...'
In the days that soon came to pass and the trauma of his death wore thinner, I began to question my Mom and aunts and uncles...
'Granddad was a writer?'
'Oh yes, he wrote every day.'
'Why was he never published?'
'He never tried.'
'Why?'
'He had to raise a family. There was no time for that.'
My mom shared with me a box of letters he wrote to her during the 16 years that she and my father lived in New England. There were volumes of hand written notes on onion skin paper reporting the comings and goings of the small rural Florida town where he lived painted with British colloquialisms, ribald humor and love. Always much love to his dearest daughter from Dad.
Phone calls of condolence from the family still in England came from across the pond with all the cousins saying 'Ah, I shall miss my letters from Uncle Sid.'
It had been a few short weeks earlier that I was sitting at his bedside in ICU, holding his hand and telling him that I had been writing a lot of poetry lately and had just finished one last night. I know it is a good one, I said, because it is about you. His eyes welled up and he attempted to speak but was thwarted by the feeding and oxygen tubes. He didn't have to say a word, the expression on his face told our story. I said, 'I love you too Granddad.' That was the last time I saw him alive.
So it came to be that a week or so after his passing that I was sitting on the edge of my bed in the wee hours of morning tripping on a hit of acid. I became aware of him sitting next to me on my left. I felt a great wind and a vacuum that I can only imagine is what it is like to swept up inside a tornado. My perception left my body and I observed from above my Granddad passing through me and leaving the gift of his love of writing. Then he was gone.
My perception returned to my body to discover me gasping for air. When I regained my breath I began to cry uncontrollably. When the deluge of tears ceased, I lunged for the nearest paper and pen and began to write with a drive, ferocity and passion that I had never before possessed and has never left me since.
It was in that hallucinogenic midnight I was struck by the lightening bolt of sudden enlightenment by the essence of someone who will love me forever that I came to realize it is not the eloquent configuration of words that provide a map towards immortality, it is the indefatigable spirit that weaves them.
It is the unseen force behind the hand that drives a pen to write regardless of whatever extenuating circumstances may prevail.
Because it is poetry that can speak eternally from beyond the lips of death.
The Old Wheel
Shining a light
through a hole in my head
wondering, musing, beguiling, intrepid
come these creatures and souls
flitting on footpaths
stretching from ear to ear
An incomplete sonnet
of razor sharp wit
begs and commands transmission
fruition and destiny
to the end of a path
devoid of primroses
and saturated with empty ears
that desire to be filled
The road once less traveled
is now bumper to bumper
shrieking and honking
with those who curse
the lack of originality
Didn’t we find
on a sailor’s night out
the passage of words
exchanged between strangers
sitting on dry lonesome gravestones
are a hand from a mouth
clutching childlike sighs
The worst from the fighting
lies in the chambers
and not on the fields
but within
not without
and the walls could burst
at the seams with dismay
and lollipop fantasies
and shattered glass dreams
and workings of poets
and the field hands scream
are but a reminder
are but an alarm
are a monkey wrench
covering the chaos of it all
Knowing not why
except but to do
while running up steam
and circles of smoke
from the fatted cigar
of the one who cares not
Isn’t it nice
and pleasantly easy
to turn the old wheel
until it dense
and encrusted with cobwebs
finding no reason for oil or water
it grows and it dies
and comes round full circle
until it arrives and regresses
Lightning will fall
and ears remain deaf
clocking sheer reason
and all that is true
surviving the panty raids
hiking the canyons
pulling from stones
blood and dew
The four horsemen have disbanded
so worry you not
the apocalypse has no catalyst
and Armageddon no fuel
the new world is the old one
the old one grows new
Sitting still
in the snug of our bed
with visions of demons
that dance in our heads
we lie to the angels
and hand them our faith
for five bucks and a wink
they will keep us all safe
from those heretic bastards
who are stinking of gin
with their cross fingered hands
in their pockets
and spit on their chin
So sing us this song, shall we?
one last long time
while we scatter rose petals
and drink fast our wine
for my mistress is calling
and I’ve run out of time
I must now kiss her toes
and coo in her ear
hymns and sonnets
and love poems dear
to unwrinkle her brow
and cast sleep in her eyes
deaden her eardrums
and silence her sighs
When she falls limp
we’ll have run of the place
my pen and my muses
and my pulsating hand
we’ll drink to oblivion
and bless this fine land
The light will shine
and our eyelids will part
then I’ll puke forth the poem
wedged in my heart
Blessings and love always,
Max
