By John Guzlowski:
LISTENING TO DEATH
How do we listen to death?
We listen to the sound of death
The way we listen to the sound of the sea
To the message the waves pound against the shore
Their soft rush of foam upon the sand
We hear the things we forgot to tell the dead
The questions we forgot to ask them
The enigmatic dreams they will never explain
The useless arguments we will neither win nor lose
The mutual misunderstandings
That will never be clarified
The lies for which we forgot to ask forgiveness
The problems death defers
The unresolved quarrels with the dead
And what can we do in the face of death?
We can leave this house
And keep going
Never to return
We will not even take
The things that have meant
The most to us, our books
The plants we have nursed
The children we have raised
Punished and praised
The clothes (the dark
Blue ties, the tweed jackets
The rakish wool caps)
That make us look
More the man
More the woman
More the hero
More the young lover
Searching for love
We can leave this house
And keep going
Never to return
And what is death?
It is the hand of God
The meal prepared with love
Flowers from the pierced breast
Of the Blessed Virgin
The shore that smells of widows
Studying the foam
And should we fear death?
No, we shouldn’t fear death
We should fear the loud man’s coming
The pain of cancer
That does this or that
To the body
That pain that is longer than sorrow
Stronger than love
The tumor that grows like
A child who then learns
To hate you
A child who will not take
The love and joy you give her
What is as difficult as death?
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
POET’S NOTE: I met Okla on Facebook.
One day maybe 7 years ago, I got a friend request from him. I didn’t know a thing about him. He was just another fellow asking to be my friend. I said sure.
I’ve never been sorry I did.
Reading Okla’s posts, his status updates, his responses to other people has always been inspiring. What he wrote was smart and funny and engaging. Sometimes he sounded like Jean Paul Sartre, and sometimes he sounded like a kid in love with literature and life and friendship and thinking and dreaming. Both Oklas were wonderful.
And even more wonderful was the Okla I discovered when I started reading his poems and his essays and his fiction.
Okla was the real thing.
He was all the writers I ever admired, and he was right there with me on Facebook.
When I heard he was dead, I couldn’t believe it. He was too filled with life, too good, too dreaming, to be dead.
But he was dead.
But I will not let go of him.
Here [above] is a poem for Okla.
ONLINE MEMORIALS AND TRIBUTES
As It Ought To Be Mourns the Loss of Our Founder
“Some testimonies to Okla Elliott, 1 May 1977 – 19 March 2017” – Days and Memory
“Requiescat in pace: poet, novelist, translator Okla Elliott, 1977-2017” – Book Haven
“Go Read Okla Elliott’s Stuff, Please. (A Remembrance)” – Great Writers Steal
“Remembering Okla Elliott” – Mildred Barya’s House of Life
REMEMBER OKLA WITH AS IT OUGHT TO BE
As It Ought To Be welcomes art and writing in Okla’s memory. Please email sivan.sf [at] gmail [dot] com with your submissions.