A Little Grief (goes a long way)
Documentation
Tanka: Having Buried Him
JENNIFER:
Having buried him, Buried him, let me bury Myself in my work. Let me not look up Until my eyes are ancient. Then I'll look up, blind. Let me stuff myself With all the world's opinions. Then, when I look up, Ancient, blind, I will see death Small, frail, through the eyes of others. |
A Little Grief (Part One)
RICHARD:
I squat beside The roaring stream. I cannot swim-- So I dream. The hot sun paints My body red As I squat here, A little dead. I squat by fire, Tranced by the glow. Burnt from above. Burnt from below. I squat and clutch My small, sharp knife. A long way goes A little grief. I sharpen up The cold steel blade That strands me in This hell I've made. This little grief Cut loose the rope That bound me to My last best hope. RICHARD AND VERN: It cut the hope Loose from my hands, To float downstream To distant lands. VERN: A little grief Goes a long way. It slits the joy Out of the day. Arse to gill, It slits the skin. The belly's wide, The finger's in. The finger hooks Around the gut And rips it clean From inside out. The nail scrapes clean The flesh and bone, The guts left for a stray racoon. VERN AND JENNIFER: I burn the flesh. The sun burns me. I eat the flesh. And what eats me? JENNIFER: And through the flames I watch the stream. I cannot swim, So I dream. Sun light covers That cooling stream. Flashes and glints, And I dream. The river roars The light away. A little grief Goes a long way. Will I dare to Jump in, float down, Grope 'round, grasp hold Of hope--or drown? Or will I sit With my little knife And watch the stream Go on with life? |
Night-Thoughts on My Father's Death
RICHARD:
In my darkest moments-- In my very darkest moments-- When, weary of my grief, I lie upon my bed, Lying under shadows, Dusk-drawn in half-light Through silhouettes of patterned curtains-- That moment when I see the darkness in the light And nearly grasp the death inside the life-- Lying stock still, Straight, arms folded 'Cross my heart-- And in that darkest moment, When I hear my daughter Padding to the door, Peeking 'round the corner, Wondering at the sight-- (JENNIFER: "He's sleeping, isn't he?") At that moment I see my father through my mother's eyes, Who saw him fall, Who saw him through the fearing, Through the months of weeping Only for her, only for her, Who saw him through the aging, Who in the inner sanctum Saw the panic Of the public man Alone, again, with God, Who saw the slip-shod, Never-learned And once-attempted Ritual of preparation-- The learning to die with grace. And in my darkest moments, In the half-light of my grief, As my daughter, squinting From the door, Wonders When I will rise again, Watches, I, in the inner sanctum, Nearly all alone, try to learn-- It all comes down to this-- I remember. I imagine. I forget. My daughter watches from the shadows As I work on the ancient mystery-- If I can hold these three In proportion, If I can find the magic ratio Of I remember, I imagine, I forget-- Then I will rise again. In the half-light of my grief I am falling, falling. I remember– everything they ever told me. I imagine– great beauties and grotesques that swarm the earth. I forget– the lateness of the hour-- ("Wake up!") Falling, falling. "Oh, so this is what it's like." ("Wake up!") The world floats before us, And a giant strides across it-- ("Wake up!") "We're with you with you with you" And his hand squeezed mine for the last time. "We're with you" but we're not. I am on the outside looking in. ("Wake up!") Ah-- I see myself through my daughter's eyes In half-light and in grief. She sees my search, My never-learned And half-believed-in Search for the perfect balance That will let me rise again. She sees my search That looks like sleeping And she wonders. It is the ritual of preparation. And will my daughter be so ill-prepared? I remember. I imagine. I forget. Forget. Regret. Forget. Regret. |
The Bleaks
VERN:
I got the bleaks. And there ain't nothin' I can do. I got the bleaks. And I got 'em all night through. Oh yes, oh yes. The door creaks of bleaks 'Til I can't stand the sound. The roof leaks of bleaks 'Til I'm soaked through and through. The whole place (yes it does) reeks of bleaks. And I can't fix it 'Cause I ain't no handy man, Sam. It freaks me, y'know, 'Cause these here bleaks 've lasted--that's right--weeks. Sometimes I think they're gone, And I relax. Y'know. And I ditch the umbrella and the earplugs And the clothespin on my nose. I'm just about to nestle down In that big old hot tub o' mine-- When Bang! Another bleak sneaks up on me And hits me hard on the back of the neck And the pit of the gut-- Where it stays, With the others. I try to duck it But it streaks in fast, see, It--fuck it--it's faster Than me--see-- Look, I know I've got to have my valleys Just like I've had my peaks, And I know--I know--the meek's gonna get somethin' some day, I heard that, too-- But right now I'm not such a pretty sight. I'm bobbin’ and weavin’ around this town With my umbrella up and my head way down, With my ears plugged and my nose pinned, Thinkin'--and, look, I know I've sinned-- But it's early for hell, ain't it? Hey--maybe I'll bottle my bleaks And sell 'em. Maybe I'll get on a talk show And tell 'em. Maybe I'll rhyme 'em on paper Or vellum--(Ha! Nice one!) "Sharin' the Bleaks", yessir. No. No. I got one hope. If I find where the tap is And turn off the bleaks-- I'll get the happies. (Ha!) |
In My Pocket
I have a memory, ever ready on the key ring of my mind.
I am watching through the kitchen window of my home. I'm small. It is enormous, The glass so old it drips and sags and ripples. Ev'ry shape is bent. It shatters ev'ry colour into ev'ry colour. It's a prism. It's a funhouse. It is divided into eight, or twelve, small panes. A nat'ral grid To help me trace more accurately (all right, mechanically) The world in pieces. And on the other side, the world is green, in maple, apple, elm, All lightening toward a distant, hazy, orchard-ordered atmosphere. This is perspective. Just on the other side, the robins, sparrows, jays Feed and fight on a house that dwarfs, that dominates the scene beyond. This is perspective. And on the other side, the fence and laneway run up from the lower left-- From gravel smudge and brown-black split rail lines--to vanish on the right In ash and sumac. This is perspective. I could paint it now, if only I could paint-- Whatever style is best to make me still believe it still exists. But I can't draw, and-- Besides, this grid restricts me to a merely academic style, And looking through this ancient, creeping waterfall deforms my vision. I cannot trust it. This picture's like the metal in my father's pocket. Any time His hand was idle, in it went, jangling the coins and keys in thought. He is distracted. And why does this remain with me? So many other memories Have disappeared. No secret. That day I watched my parents drive away. Drive down that laneway. Oh, not for long, and this was not the first or last time they would leave. No. But it was the first time it occurred to me– they might not Drive up the lane again. I thought the thought original, that they might not return again. And all the feelings started then, just then, that I have learned so well Through endless practice. You know them--blood is rushing, stomach's hurting, tears are nearly there But not quite there. Impossible. Incomprehensible. Confused. There, there. There, there, child. My parents drove off down the lane together. They might be back. Rippling through the dripping glass, split to rainbows, sliced to bits-- The glass impressed me. So it has been, since then. Whenever there's a parting, the idle hand Goes in the pocket, shakes the keys and coins, and, sadly, watches through The wicked kitchen window. |
Reverie at the Gym
ALL: (Chanting) The rhythm, the rhythm, the rhythm of the gym.
Ah, the rhythm, the rhythm, the rhythm of the gym. RICHARD: Oh, isn't it classic– JEN: –really? VERN: Your father dies, and what do you do? ALL: The rhythms, oh the rhythms. Oh, the rhythms of the gym. RICHARD: I mean, the gym! JEN: The chrome! VERN: The glass! ALL: The smell! (Chanting.) And I work, and work out, and work up, and sing "Work, for the day is com-ing!" RICHARD: No, no, that's out. JEN: We sang that at the funeral. VERN: Nix to that. ALL: Give me the rhythms, oh the rhythms, and the rhythms / Of the gym. VERN: On to the treadmill ALL: It's-a long-and stead-y walk to-the mirror, yes It's-a long-and stead-y walk VERN: And-I must-'t e-ver stop Or-I'll flip-o 'ver-on my-head at-the mir--ror. (And then I'm gone–) ALL: I'ts a long, steady walk to the mirror, yes. It's a long and steady walk VERN: And my arms look like a duck– ALL: And don't think of speeding up Or you'll sail off of the machine Into the mir-ror. VERN: And then I'm gone. ALL: ( To marching chant) It's a--long--walk--arms--duck--flies--flies--flies- VERN: My hand comes up and waves a nonexistent fly away, And then I'm gone again. And here he comes again. Damn the flies. They're going to eat us alive, alive-o. We're in the woods, in our flannel shirts And loaded down with baskets filled with bricks (All right, they seemed like bricks) For one last trip. For one last trip, My father walks in front of me, Carrying the heaviest pack, Determined to have the magic back again. We are exhausted And have no clue how long we will be walking. We are pock-marked by fly-bites, And there's not much talking. (And I'm back again, briefly) It's a stea-dy walk to the mir-ror, And my arms look like a duck, And I'll never be myself again With any luck– I saw them, saw them walking, The old man and the boy, From high above I saw them Through the black haze. I fell from the highest height. I fell past them in a leaf, And I thought I saw the old man crying. No–that won’t work-- On to the Rowing Machine ALL: Legs--back--arms--pull! Crunch. Legs--back--arms--pull! Crunch. Ma--king--pro--gress! Crunch. Leaves--no--time--to-- Think. Can--I--keep--it-- Up? Row--ers--Tell--me-- How. When--you--sweat--you Wipe. The--tear--from--your Brow. With--out--let--ting Go! Legs--back--arms--pull! Crunch. VERN: Uh-oh. ALL: Legs--back--arms--pull! Crunch. VERN: Here I go– ALL: Let! Me! Pull! Hard! Pause. VERN: Oh, hell. I'm gone again. I pull the oars as hard as I am able But the boat barely nudges from its spot Among the others. Not quite working. Not quite what we wanted. The wilderness is shattered by the noise Of strangers talking. By the pains of bones that won't go on. And by the bites that just won't let us see The wilderness, the wilderness around us. A loon calls. Someone mocks it. Listen. It answers. Someone mocks again--it answers, again, From another place-- Searching, I thought, For the other one, the long-lost one That wasn't ever there, That one of us invented To drive it mad. My father stood up in the boat. RICHARD: “Quiet!” VERN: – he shouted– and he never shouted In the wilderness. RICHARD: "Keep--quiet!" VERN: The shout drowned out the mocks and calls. Everybody did as they were told. And--something happened--I can't say what. Exactly. Everything was silent, The sun, the trees, the wind on the lake, and we Were silent. And everything was empty, The air around us, the lake beneath us, and we Were empty. And everything was clear-- He stood up in the boat And shouted, And everything around him answered him With solemn, silent dignity-- Just that once. Quiet--quiet--we dared not move. And--off in the distance The loon called out again. This time we listened, As it echoed 'round the hills. After some moments--after the Loon's call had moved The land and lake and air and us And we all slowed again to quiet, My father-- Still standing, very still-- Said softly– RICHARD: "That was worth it all. That was worth it all. All. All." VERN: Oh, I will never, ever, ever after that, Ever laugh at Wordsworth. I am back again. But I am no longer rowing. The mirrors and the chrome Are moved by the echoes Of the rock and roll. If I stood up and shouted-- No--I think better of it. It isn't working, is it? No, it isn't working. I could stay here, forever, Until I looked like Adonis Or Stallone, But there'd be no forgetting And no accepting And no Revelation. It's the machines--you know. They come alive--you know. When I am in them, Each chrome, cast-iron, plastic Monstrous rhythm possesses me. And for every rhythm A different ghost comes from me. He chops the wood on hot summer days. He pitchforks the hay into the manger. He lifts the bags of sand from the trunk of his car When he is old. Even the warm-ups are possessed. I ache and I moan my yoga, Practising the ancient art of praying, As I imagine his Tai-Chi, Effortlessly floating, At the age of eighty-seven, Practising the ancient art of fighting. Ha! Astonish me, you old man! |
Other Deaths: Envoi
RICHARD:
This sullen shuffling of the feet,
The sleeplessness and frequent cursing
Comes from imagining, rehearsing
What I would do if he were here.
JENNIFER:
At the centre of my memories
He stands–yet now I hardly mention
Him by name. Not my intention.
I tiptoe ‘round the pain.
VERN:
At the margins of my life he stands
Instead, and strikes a bitter blow.
I see him, and know I cannot know
His mind, and share my life.
This sullen shuffling of the feet,
The sleeplessness and frequent cursing
Comes from imagining, rehearsing
What I would do if he were here.
JENNIFER:
At the centre of my memories
He stands–yet now I hardly mention
Him by name. Not my intention.
I tiptoe ‘round the pain.
VERN:
At the margins of my life he stands
Instead, and strikes a bitter blow.
I see him, and know I cannot know
His mind, and share my life.
Other Deaths: For Maryanne
(abducted while walking home from school
when she was ten and I was twelve.) RICHARD: After you disappear I watch the line Of men move cautiously across the park, Devouring the ground before them for a sign. To an unplayed funeral march they move 'til dark. With hats and dogs and sticks I see them crush The grass beneath them as they look for--what? A piece of clothing. Something to raise a shout. Only a frightening hush-- No one speaks, and high above, I shut The bathroom window. I will not go out. I read the papers and cut out your news. Descriptions of events, the car, the places You played that day, the way you dressed, the clues They need to find, and have not found. And faces. His face. He's bald, with glasses. Witnesses' Dim memories, sketched in a delicate style All wrong to capture the horror of the day. He stares expressionless. And your face. You see the camera, you smile, And then, like me, you start to turn away. Along the wooded road my father drives, Past where they think they've found your shoe. As I Look out the window, I imagine lives In danger, bound and raped and killed. I try, But it's all abstract. For all the details from The news, that ought to light the shadowy Event, I cannot see your body dead. That image will not come. The woods speed by. I search until I see Myself reflected. Again, I turn my head. I watch the television interviews For weeks. I watch the interest in you fade. I watch appeals from family, who refuse To give up hope, who might have stayed Forever in the camera's eye, pretending He listens. But, since there is no news, The cameras close their eyes. The men go home. The story has no ending, And you disappear again. I lose The clippings, and your picture. You are alone. My kitchen, twenty-four years later. It's A bright--a spotless room. A cheerful day. My family surrounds me and admits No sorrow--we laugh it all away. But a paper on a chair attracts my eye, And for a careless moment my guard drops. I have no strength. The blood drains from my face. I bow my head--and cry. My carefully prepared existence stops. My wife and daughter wonder--and embrace. Maryanne– your face peers out and smiles. Resurrected after all this time. Pulled from the morgues, dug out of the files Of every paper, they rehearse the crime For one more day, because there's something new. A man who might have killed you killed himself And left a note. The hopes, again, awaken– But he does not mention you. No help. And soon--they'll place you on the shelf Again. You won't be news, again--again, forsaken. Not this time, Maryanne. I could not find You if you disappeared--again. Forever In me--deep in the graveyards of my mind I buried you. There, inside me. My God, I never Looked for you. I never knew How. And what can I do now, but free Your memory from my common thoughtlessness? It is no use to you, But from now on, I will keep your face before me. Your name is Maryanne. Your name means helplessness. |
Other Deaths: For the Friend I've Forgotten
(the unknown girl who disappeared
from class without comment) JENNIFER:
Her face appears before me. I could touch her. I don't remember her name. It might be Cathy. It might be Jones. I'll never remember her name. She sat behind me in school. I can see us in the room. I don't remember which grade. It might have been three. It might have been five. She was my friend, for a while. She was thin, and tall, and wore gray cardigans Buttoned only at the top. Her hair was bobbed. Why do I know these things And can't remember her name? Her face was round. her cheeks were high, her neck long. I see her now. She's smiling. If I were an artist and she would stay with me, I could prove I was her friend. Is my memory a liar? Is the face I see A police artist's sketch? A composite of cheeks and mouths and noses From other missing persons? One day she disappeared. Just like that. I don't remember missing her At the time. I must have. I hope so. I have forgotten so much. I don't remember her mentioned in school. I don't remember talking. The seat was empty, then the seat was filled. Other friends have moved away. I have it in my head she died of cancer. Years later someone told me this. I have it in my head that this was silenced. Don't upset the children. Let's forget. But shouldn't we have been with her in sickness? Shouldn't we have talked about her death? Shouldn't I have told her grieving parents She was my friend? My friend? |
|
Other Deaths: For the Family Next Door
VERN:*
The mission was impossible. "Honey, take this casserole To their house." "What, now?" "Yes, now. They have a house, full. They need food--now." I'd seen them at the funeral home. All those dark clothes. My good friend Wore a jacket and tie. The first time I'd seen that. He didn’t suit that suit. We shook hands--again, first time. We barely spoke--again, first time. It was terribly uncomfortable And I didn't want to see them then. I had nothing to say. They didn't need our food. It was useless. But I took the casserole And started down the hill. It might have been getting dark. I doubt it, but I like to think it was, Because my brain Worked overtime On scary thoughts, And I need an excuse to have thought them. I was too old to be scared. I think I thought of that movie Where the bodies turn into ghouls. Not the good one-- The bad one on TV. I only saw part of it, And had nightmares for years. Embarrassing--it was such a bad movie. I think I thought of that Polanski film I accidentally saw late one night. I was all alone. The walls have hands That grab the woman, And there were rotting animals And murders--she goes crazy, see? I think I thought of the Addams Family. And how much they love funerals and death. And how Morticia Clips the flowers Off the roses, And of Gomez's suit and slicked back hair. Most men at funerals look like Gomez. I know what you're thinking. I watched too much TV. I know, I know. And it had nothing to do With my mission. But my brain worked overtime Because I didn't want to knock. I climbed the fence and stopped at the door. It had a knob you turned to ring the bell. My hand reached out. And what did I think of? The Addams Family again. The house was full of ghouls And people staring from the curtains- Stupid! Stupid! What was I thinking? They were my neighbours! I knew them well! I'd played in the house A million times-- I knew every inch. They were always kind to me. Stupid, stupid--I turned the bell. And whaddya suppose my face looked like When they led me into the kitchen Full of people, Talking loudly, Living their lives. I think I froze in the doorway. I think I stepped back. Whaddya suppose my face looked like When I stepped back from the crowd. I remember the noise Stopped, and they turned. I remember a laugh, And someone said, "It's all right, Dear. You can come in. We're all alive in here." They pried the casserole from me. And I think I went right back home. But I never thought Until just this second About those words. Whoever said 'em, how did they know I'd been thinking of Gomez and ghouls. (sound fades) But you know– My father once told me about a death In his family when he was young-- House full of people, Talking loudly, Living their lives. He remembered the doorbell rang And a man said, "I come for the shoes." He was a neighbour who hardly spoke. My father couldn't remember his name. And all he said, In a shy, low voice, was "I come for the shoes." He stepped into the hallway and motioned At the line of shoes along the wall. And all that he did was to shine the shoes Of all of the family, the grievers and mourners. In a house full of people Talking loudly In other rooms, He knelt on the floor and he worked. Then he left, without a word--without a word. Maybe there isn't much you can do For the mourners and grievers of the world. You give 'em food. You shine their shoes. They help themselves. But what I wanta know is, the guy with the shoes-- What was he thinkin' as he rang that bell. |
Worth the Singing
RICHARD:
Hell, I remember every wrong's been done to me. Every hurt. Every time I was punished for something I didn't do. I think I remember-- I thought I remembered-- I will imagine that I remember– Are these wars not worth the singing? I imagine That I remember The last time my father sat at table with me. Thanksgiving. He gave the thanks. He gave the thanks. And in the middle of the meal, Without warning he began to sing. –he began to sing. He loved to sing–it wasn't that. It wasn’t that. But it was a song– But it was a song that we had never heard him sing. And it was a voice that we had never heard him use. Without the cracks and quavers of those eighty-seven years. That song was full and sweet and strong, the recollection clear. There was no hesitation in his phrasing As he sang every verse. Full and sweet and strong As he sang every verse. We sat and watched and listened, Forks frozen before our mouths And our food half-chewed. It was a song of love– It was a song of love, as I remember. It had a woman's name, as I remember. As I remember He sang it to his wife– Or my daughter. Or the world. Or so I would imagine. Or so I would imagine. It was a young man's voice Bursting from beneath the layers of golden glaze. He finished. We applauded. The pleasure of remembering Carried us through the evening. I imagine that I remember – this. And if my memory's been clouded by the years, If I have mis-remembered the performance, (I have, after all, forgotten the name of the song) And if I have invented the event To help me through my grief, Well--that’s no more Than he would have wanted me to do. If and when I reach my father's age, Sit at my daughter's table for thanksgiving-- If, suddenly, the clear and focussed memory of youth Breaks through the layers of golden glaze That darken and distort the man I was-- What will I perform? The litany of every wrong's been done to me? Or a song of love. I hope I am my father's son. |
JEN:
Whenever I survey the landscape of my life And let the memory go out of focus, I see the colours and the textures-- The warm tones and soft curves-- Of a contented life. The kindness and the love The world has shown to me Washes over the canvas, Gives it shape, Relates the smallest detail At the farthest corner To the whole. A jagged edge where there should be a gradual shade. I see nothing else, then. Just the wrong. Crisp and clean. Mine for meditation. Are these wars not worth the singing? imagine remember |
VERN:
And when I survey the landscape of my life, Move my unfocussed eye across the canvas, Every now and then, something catches it. A detail doesn't fit. A jagged edge where there should be a gradual shade. Wherever my eye is caught, That's where I focus in. A flash pan, a rollercoaster telescoping zoom– I see nothing else then. Just the wrong– A detail doesn’t fit. Just the wrong. Every detail mine to keep. Mine for life. imagine remember |
A Little Grief (Part Two)
VERN:
This endless day's
Passed awful brief.
A long way goes
A little grief.
And I've survived
The burning heat,
The drowning noise,
The stony seat.
Yellow to red
The cold sun sets,
Turning the trees
To silhouettes.
Dark covers light
Now, as the trees
Erase the sun
In the gentle breeze.
And one bird beats
High above
Against the wind,
It will not move.
It beats, it beats
To stay in place.
Its wings drown out
The water's race.
It beats, it beats
Against the time.
Its wings drown out
The river's whine.
The sun is gone.
The fire's cold.
The river's dark
And I am old.
JENNIFER:
The bird lets go
And takes the wind,
Goes on with life,
Leaves me behind.
Leaves me behind
With my sharp knife,
And flies away
To live its life.
Night will come
And rage will cool
I’ll wade downstream
And sing of you.
I will wade on,
As bird will soar.
And I'll leave my grief
Upon the shore.
My arms raised high,
I'll struggle down,
My little grief
Left on the ground.
I’ll strike my grief
Deep in the ground,
And search for hope--
Or drown.
This endless day's
Passed awful brief.
A long way goes
A little grief.
And I've survived
The burning heat,
The drowning noise,
The stony seat.
Yellow to red
The cold sun sets,
Turning the trees
To silhouettes.
Dark covers light
Now, as the trees
Erase the sun
In the gentle breeze.
And one bird beats
High above
Against the wind,
It will not move.
It beats, it beats
To stay in place.
Its wings drown out
The water's race.
It beats, it beats
Against the time.
Its wings drown out
The river's whine.
The sun is gone.
The fire's cold.
The river's dark
And I am old.
JENNIFER:
The bird lets go
And takes the wind,
Goes on with life,
Leaves me behind.
Leaves me behind
With my sharp knife,
And flies away
To live its life.
Night will come
And rage will cool
I’ll wade downstream
And sing of you.
I will wade on,
As bird will soar.
And I'll leave my grief
Upon the shore.
My arms raised high,
I'll struggle down,
My little grief
Left on the ground.
I’ll strike my grief
Deep in the ground,
And search for hope--
Or drown.
PARODY of Other Deaths: For the Family Next Door
(By Vern Gonsalves)
For Luisa, who stage-managed two plays that I acted in The mission was impossible. Vernon, call Luisa for An audition. What, now? Yes, now– Auditions start next week–book a time now! I’d seen her last at the theatre On closing night. My good friend called her right Away. It didn’t take long. They made plans–for Tuesday night. Improv and cold readings on Tuesday night. You might think I’m being smart. I doubt it and I’d like to think you don’t, Because my brain Worked overtime To write these thoughts And it took some time to have written them. Rest assured they are quite sincere. I think I forgot to thank you in The message I left on your cell phone. So thank you. For what? For attempting To get hold of me to schedule an audition time. I guess you spoke to Stephen regarding my interest. I’m afraid I must go. There is work I must do. Hope you enjoyed my casserole. Thanks again, Vern |