IN MEMORIAM GEERT VAN OORSCHOT Poem by Rogi Wieg

I once found you, before your death, face down
on your bed. You wore a black suit and a black hat.

"Geert's dead!" No, you were breathing and I woke you up. You
told me you were moving to a smaller place.

"What's wrong with this house? And what will happen with all
your books?" How was I to know you meant an urn?

Did you mean a grave? Not temporary accommodation? You
said: "Go into the garden and pick flowers."

You sent me into the garden to pick flowers.
In the light I did as you wanted. Flowers. For you?

Or more for all that had happened and what might
happen? I visited you more often than people imagine,

we spoke together more than they think. I know lots
about you, I know your love and regret, your fearful greatness.

I kept it secret, just as you kept me secret from others
in that final year. I don't know why. I was so unimportant.

Perhaps for that reason? But you weren't like that, for we ate together
and you said, concerned: "Look for a job, no one can live on poetry."

I'm not job-hunting and you're incredibly dead. Once a letter came
in your handwriting from someone else. A miracle: you were Geert van Oorschot.