for Penny Holt
1
I think dying is a lot like writing poetry.
There is some fear when you approach each,
but you don’t let that stop you.
You notice how death and poetry
only deal with what is essential,
the essence of yourself, your spirit.
You see your flesh as a thin membrane,
separating you from that ladder of light
you must climb
to weave words together
or to die.
I expect there will be kind angels
to help you climb, and others
who will wrestle hard with you until dawn
so you will become strong enough
to bear blessings
that flow from their hands.
2
I know that when you write
it is a sort of death,
a birth into a new world
you have been creating
since the day you were born.
It is probably the same
when you die.
You will bring your own
loves, fears, dreams
with you, creating your own Heaven,
bearing it like the shell
a sea creature forms
from ordinary bits of life.
Then, there is light.
Both dying and poetry
are all about light,
how it leads you through shadows
you think you might drown in,
how it is the thread
that ties together
your past, present, and future selves
so you can write or die
with your whole self,
a plant with buds, flowers,
and seed pods bursting.
3
To write poems, you must trust
the path to appear before you,
but only as you plant your feet.
Dying, I think, is much the same,
an act of faith,
or maybe a wild leap
into invisible arms,
that like the earth,
have always held you up.
© Jean Sampson, 2014
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Hearts-a-bursting
Photo by Tony Russell |
