Hello Earth #9

Hello Earth

Here I am, not long come from a visit to Ange for cuppa and chat, our first since lockdown. It was not only a catch-up, but a remembrance and celebration of our dear friend Phill, on the anniversary of his death last year — Phill who (how many years ago?) when Ange came to live near me, told us both we should meet. When we finally did, he proved so right: instant kinship between us, as well as with him. It’s good, now, to have someone else here who understands what a special bloke he was.

Earth, I bet you know all who live in your embrace — however many, however briefly. Do you miss him? His music, his art, his poetry? His beautiful soul? I think you must. He walked lightly upon you, living simply. He was a being of love, and gave it out to other living beings. (Ange sent me home tonight with a herbal tea called Love, a blend of organic rose, chamomile and lavender.)

Leaning in, I reminisce about old meetings on various Christmas visits to his home town that used to be mine. Talks we had about literature, politics and mysticism. He was so well-read! 

Listing gratitudes, I could go on for paragraphs — I have so many! I guess it all comes down to one huge cause for gratitude: he lived, we knew him. 

Offering a sip of cinnamon tea to the moon and stars, we toasted him, clinking our cups. We like to think he heard. 

Horror

It's day 23 of April Poems at 'imaginary garden with real toads' and we are asked to write a horror poem. They mean fantasy horror, but ....

Horror

Horror is not a spooky movie

with ghosts, werewolves, 

or giant spiders. No.

Horror is over two hundred people 

bombed to death in Sri Lanka 

and five hundred wounded.

Cold horror is the fact it was planned

by a whole group. Carefully. Thoroughly. 

Horror is thirty-six thousand 
people every night sleeping rough, 

homeless – thirty-six thousand,
just in Western Sydney.

Horror is lovely Dove Lake 

at the foot of Cradle Mountain

(in Tasmania where I grew up)

clear and blue on the surface

but its sediment toxic,

thick with heavy metal.

Must I go on? You know I've only 

just  got started. The world 

is full of horrors. I haven't yet

mentioned child abuse, rape,

domestic violence. I haven't

listed wars, disease, fatal 

car crashes. You have your own 
examples. You don't need me

to tell you about the polar ice-caps.

Horror, tonight, is very personal –

my generous-hearted friend 
dying fast of cancer,

his voice on the phone already

weaker and more slurred

than it was four days ago.

Horror is contemplating

his pain, his vertebrae crumbling.

Speaking of Haiku ...

In Bits of Inspiration, day 18 of Poems in April at 'imaginary garden with real toads', we are asked to find inspiration in Matsuo Basho's 'The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.' 

Speaking of Haiku ...

Basho writes of the sound of temple bells

lingering on the air, and in the ear,

even after fading into silence – as if

he is hearing it now from the flowers.

                        *********

Tonight, after the poetry reading,

I come home to a message 

to call my adopted brother. 

He adopted me first – around 2007

when we were both on MySpace 

and I started haiku and tanka groups. 

He joined, and became my chief cohort;

even took over the haiku one awhile 

when I needed a rest. Later 

we migrated them to facebook,

shared the admin roles ever since. 

We started meeting for coffee or lunch

on my Christmas visits to Melbourne 

(where he lives, and I used to).

Somewhere along the line, we began

addressing each other as Sis and Bro. 

A big woolly bear of a man,

he makes music and vibrant digital art –

and wrote the best erotic poem I ever read

(a reminiscence about an old girlfriend).

Another old girlfriend lives up here.

He told her to look me up. That 

was a few years ago. Now she's one 
of my dearest friends as well as his.

Tomorrow she and I will meet

as planned last week, to see a movie.

Also I expect we'll talk about him. 

I phoned him back. He told me his news. 

He said he'd already spoken to her. 

He explained why he won't be helping

with the poetry groups any more –

or be on Facebook any more at all. 

'Haiku on Friday is yours,' he said.

He told me how much he appreciated 

my friendship – and claimed I'd got him 

writing again, all those years ago 

after he'd been stopped (I never knew).

He sounded cheerful, calm and strong.

'It'll be just the way I want,' he said.

'Quick. And the doctor's on board

with giving me lots of pain-killers.'

I hope he leaves his artworks and music

and poetry up online. I'm going to want

to keep revisiting them. 

                        *********

Even after the temple bells fall silent,

their sound will linger on the air

and rise up from the flowers.

I sent him this poem. In our last conversation, a couple of days before he died, he told me he loved it. I made a joke that I was writing his jisei (death poem) for him. We had that kind of relationship where such things could be said and understood, even at such a time. He laughed appreciatively, and said I was very cheeky.