for Rivka Augenfeld
It's a mouthful
nominative determinism:
the optician name Glass,
the jeweler named Diamond,
the doctor named Payne,
the writer named Penn,
Fields the farmer,
and you don't need to be a lexicographer
to know what Carpenter, Cook and Banks do.
But rules don't always apply,
take Klein for example.
He was anything but small,
a giant, a master of words.
When he wrote about himself
it was always about something bigger
than himself,
his kin, his community, his country,
he grieved publicly
for the whole damned broken world,
and then privately
in silence.
Invoking the poet's significant influence
on my insignificant life,
paying him homage - the least
I could do -
I misspoke,
said his beloved daughter Sharon
had done herself in
at 27,
joined that tragic club that includes
Jimi, Jim, Janis, Kurt and Amy,
but I was wrong about that,
it wasn't her decision,
or an accidental OD,
maybe I said that
for my own reasons,
a mystery.
And then there is
the Name of Names
the Creator,
the Almighty,
the Unpronounceable,
who I try to revive weekly
with my uttered blessings,
cup of red wine,
pale bread laid before me
covered
like a corpse.
If there is any certainty
it's that we don't always do
what fate prescribes,
or see why
we should have faith
in what we can't name
but try we must,
again and again,
we must try.
2 comments:
Wordsworth comes to my mind! The perfect name for a poet. I also know a Doctor whose last name is Doctor. Dr. Doctor.
Your undying love for A.M. also shines through. Though I am intrigued about what you said or didn't say about his daughter, and what the real story was.
Otherwise, I very much enjoyed this one. These lines (see below), I am warning you in advance, I might steal from you and use in another context ... they are just so great!
"pale bread laid before me
covered
like a corpse"
P.S. I call myself Kelp, you know, for a reason. My hope is to be something green and natural and healthy that comes from the vast mysterious sea.
And coincidentally, this week a dear friend of the family passed away, his name was Bloom. Among other professions, he once owned a flower shop.
So it refers to my reading which you attended on zoom. I apparently mention Klein’s daughter, said wrongly that she had committed suicide, and Rivka (to whom I dedicated the poem) contacted me last week to mention that I was misinformed. She knew Sharon, lived with her at the time of her death, and said she died of cardiac arrest. It seems unthinkable that a person of 27 could die like that, but Sharon had serious co-morbidities. I’m not sure why I thought that it was suicide but no doubt I had fused in my mind the tragedy of AM Klein with the untimely death of his daughter. She died not long after her father, who himself had died shortly after her mother. Such tragedy.
As for the lines, I’m pleased you like the poem and would be happy to see them repurposed. I’m a firm believer in all forms of recycling.
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