Ode Poem by Tamir Greenberg

More than anything I hated death.
No, not death. The dead. I mean,
just one dead. I mean, a dark haired boy.
I mean - I didn’t hate. I loved.

Please, you who travel north along the shore,
driving past darkened fish farms, your headlights glowing:
Press down the accelerator and fly, turn on
the radio and cheerfully listen to the power
coursing through the electric wires:
For he was alive my friend, he walked among you,
and his love of life was fiercer
than the destructive might of the dead.

For a time I waited for his return, then I stopped.
His face, which meant the essence of my life,
was stained with oblivion. I was lonely without him.
No, not lonely. Puzzled. I mean -
my love for him grew stronger.

Yet, as I step barefoot across the decaying earth,
confounded by the craftiness of the material world,
as I see a run-over dog lying at the curb
a family of worms nourishing on his liver,
as I listen to the drone of life swarming in lawns,
pubs, department stores and soccer fields,
where each individual is carved in a skillful pattern,
as I try to imagine a colossal chain
where there’s room for the conqueror, the creator,
the clown and the one eager to be born
in a plentiful stream of easy vitality -
then I no longer wish to know
if there’s a name for the pattern, its meaning,
and what is grander: the living or its end.

Please, you who quiver at this moment at the heart of nothingness
anxious to charge the threshold of the third millennium
thirsting to experience the pleasure of breathing,
you, who anticipate with a fluttering heart
journeys to worlds the eye hadn’t seen,
You, who would impart reason to matter,
would freeze fragile tissue,
would quantify spirit in equation,
you, who would work for a living,
would mourn your dead,
would drown your sorrow in drugs:
Fuse all the elements.
Fuse iron, please. Fuse lead.
Fuse carbon. Fuse sulphur.
Fuse as well the solitary. The transient.
The praised. The heavenly.
Fuse your name. Your homes.
Your money. Fuse them with your hands.
Your passion. Your great power
of the imagination. Aim brilliant rays
to where lust burns. Turn
dust in your palms. Listen
to the rap of rain-drops.
For he was alive, my friend, and long before
you arrived in the world he was forgotten,
yet, even if his beautiful eyes had dried
and his dear frame consumed in dust,
the joy he wished to grant me hasn’t died:
They will yet erupt in a flare of emotion
those who listen to the sound that always strikes,
they will yet be prized those keen
on pondering the subtle,
and in them, their spirit, their wealth, their beauty,
will echo the love of life he possessed.