No More
 

.
.
.
No More

............. for Michelle Slater


Only the fall of the lid
Reveals the tale there hid.
.................—George Sterling


It starts with a negative call, some message
sent to ear, perhaps to eye,
some hint of a voice that’s quietly missing,
the dwindling echo of some “I”.

It ends with a crushing sense of wonder
at the clearest edge of awe’s despair,
where absence simply swallows thunder,
where what was, once, is no more there.


sudden
is a teacher
and a thief

of all
the flagrant traces
of my grief


The date, the hour you fall mute
re-focuses our shared suspicions,
so a delegate is sent to snoop,
to ring, to knock, to demand admission.

And all of us who are miles away,
who are mindful, yes, though not afraid
(not yet, the dark still held at bay)
are shocked, at last, to hear it said,

aloud, that you are there—but dead,
just sitting, sitting on your couch.
In quiet loss? In anguished dread?
The cold hard fact dissolves in doubt.


voiceless
grows my preacher
of relief

un-muscled
my embrace’s
falling leaf


Fleet witness, all detail forbidden,
distraught, denied the rite of entry,
our emissary marks you ‘hidden’—
inhibited by law’s stern sentry

from deepened living’s long last look.
No face, no voice. No mind. No more—.
Your life, an ever-opening book.
Your death, a brusquely closing door.


vanish
full-selved creature
all too brief

abandon
these bright places
of belief
.
.
.

This hit me like a sledge hammer Nemo. This is a poem to be mulled over and savoured, which I shall do and of course return.

Fantastic. This line is brilliant:

the dwindling echo of some “I”.

Very touching, Nemo. I wasn't sure whether the brief italicised lines are yours, or - if Michelle Slater is a poet - hers? Their use is very effective, either way.

And, either way, I will be back, like Jan.

Cheers and condolences

David

The way you’re able to write a poem with deep emotion without a hint of sentimentality is what’s so powerful. The line Rick points out is what I’m talking about.

When I read this I was speechless. First, it froze me with its language: with the liquid torrent of its form: crystalline. Then I reread it and realised what it was about. Then I was speechless again this time not out of a lack of "criticism" with which to explain how good I thought it was, but rather out of a realisation that everything I had to say on the topic as a response had been already said by this. The poem had swallowed my speech. It takes the top off my head not because it is simply a wondrously crafted form of words on silence: but rather it does not talk into the silence so much as animate the silence with language. The poem is part of the "res itself". I do not believe in the separation between form and content. It seems to me that neither does this poem. After I read it I went and read "Voyages" by Hart Crane. I needed to find something with such a likewise compelling insistence upon language's animating savagery.

Hope this helps.

Nothing to say except a reminder of that time Michelle and I were in your car, and you pulled into the driveway of what happened to be a cemetery to turn around, and Michelle said, "Ah this is my stop."

This has, in the main, incredible mouth feel. The one stanza that does not because of its awkward construction in L4 is:

It ends with a crushing sense of wonder
at the clearest edge of awe’s despair,
where absence simply swallows thunder,
where what was, once, is no more there

Possibly change along the lines of:

t ends with a crushing sense of wonder
at the clearest edge, despair of awe,
where absence simply swallows thunder,
where what was once, is there no more.

You have nailed awe as having an attendant despair.

I am so enjoying coming back to this time and again Nemo I gain from each reading.

That was the first stanza of the poem that first left me gasping. Personally I wouldn't change it.

Hope this helps.

This is strong and dense, and keeps calling me back. It has the feel, to me of Eliot’s “The Family Reunion”, with the italic sections being spoken by the chorus or the furies. When I’m unsure of the meaning, the solid metrics and the rhymes really help me reach for the hook at the end, to swing me on to the next line. It is satisfying. And grim.