'Dying is fun! '
you say
'...once you get
the hang of it...'
'...& as long as
the pain stays away! '
Your face
says ouch
without saying 'Ouch! '
'It adds
an extra spice
to life
knowing how minutes
there are left! '
'I calculated it
with my solar power
pocket caluclator! '
'It seems like
you live it twice
as fast...twice
as intense
seeing everything
so
precise
seeing even
what's.. not...there! '
The pain laughs
at your puny efforts
to control it.
'Doc...says a year
(at the most)
maybe a matter of
months...weeks! '
'It depends
on what
the cancer
thinks! '
you laugh.
'And to think
I'm a Cancerian! '
The pain has not got
your sense of humour.
Already I can see
it is bored by you
tries to wipe
that grin
off your face.
It almost
...succeeds.
'Seems like I'm nothing
now
but this
cancer! '
'It's all that
anybody can see! '
'Like I've been
rubber stamped
on my forehead
or something! '
'Well, Mrs. Cancer...'
I swore I heard the doctor say.
'And, all
my friends
can see
is...my death! '
'They annoy me
with their crying! '
'Hello...hell.. o!
I'm not dead yet! '
'This bloddy cancer
has taken on a life
of it's
own
tells me what
I can or can't
do! '
'It's the boss! '
'Now...
that there's a limit to it
Time...is precious
can't bear...
to waste a minute
.. of it! '
'It feels as if
the cancer
is a famous
sculptor
& labours
to create
the shape
of my death
bit
by
bit! '
'Seems like
it's one of those
ugly modern
abstract statues
you know
meaning nothing
with a hole in the middle! '
'And everyday
the cancer
chiselling away
at it
striving for
perfection! '
'I tell the cancer
Oh...get on with it! '
'Get it over with! '
'See...I'm becoming
quite the philosopher! '
'Now...get out of here! '
'Stop talking
to a dying woman
get out in the sun
don't
waste
a min-
-ute
of
it! '
I laugh.
You're still so.. you!
You ask me
for a favour
before I go.
I scratch
your bum
(you can't reach it
no more) .
You tell me
'That's the best
scratch in all the world! '
I smile
tell you
you always had
the best bum in the world.
You laugh.
(It...hurts) .
I go.
Close the door
behind me
on your dying.
Step into brash sunlight
that feels like it's lying.
Two months later
your death
greets me
disguised as an airmail
letter.
I missed your dying
by a week
...it seems
I'm in a different
country...crying.
A weak sun
shivers in the land
of the living.
From beyond
Death
you write me
a private letter
with handwriting
I wouldn't
recognise as yours.
It just says:
'Donall Donall! '
on the envelope.
Inside
(a card)
a wood engraving
by Eric Gill
the one with Mary Magdalene
covering a crucified Christ
with her body
her hair
like a river
covering them
both.
The handwriting
almost broken
only kept
alive
by your iron
will.
'Guess
the statue's
done
&
Death
is no
Michelangelo
could have done
better myself
but I wasn’t
up to it! '
My tears
dissolving your words.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I don't know how something can be so glorious and so painful at the same time, but this is. It touches on a subject that we all deny...death, at its most painful.... it is funny in places...and one of the hardest poems to read that I have ever read, yet gloriously. 'Close the door behind me on your dying' goes beyond hurt to read, but anyone who has ever dealt with death knows that feeling, and 'missed your death by a week' is another hurt too. I cannot tell you how this poem touches me, how deeply it hurts, or how much I respect your writing abilities! Scarlett