I Wake Up Dying
Instead I Write
l
Who
is this man
who rises at dawn
no longer in command
of his body
in
manifest fear of death
who opens a book
begins to read poetry
and
reflect on the art of expression
There's pain in his head
his
heartbeat is dizzy
he gives himself up for dead
so he takes up a
pen
some scraps of paper
and writes this down
Who is this
man
whose poem
is his only friend
2
Years now
studying the poets
trying to find my voice
I want to speak with
authority
recognizable unique
I want you to know who I am
But I've
lost all patience
with trial and error
I'm getting pissed off
you've
got to be young
for this work or unselfconscious
Sometimes I think one
voice
is as good as another
if you've nothing to say
it won't
matter
if you do
a way will be found
3
I was born expecting this dying
I can't remember it
otherwise
how many others can say
death is their destiny
as I feel it's
mine
Sitting here this morning
clutching my symptoms
throbs jabs
jitters in the frame
sensing surges in my blood
it seems so
right
I've been preparing for this
all my life
I'm not
prepared
4
I've awakened thinking I'm finished
my
body in distress
but peace of mind eludes me
my dignity out of
reach
Is this the naked aloneness
I was promised
is this the
denouement
from which nothing follows
I feel let
down
5
Now at this moment
when death possesses
my mind
as I sit here convinced
that I'm done
I hatch a great
hoax
I'll leave a note
announcing my conversion
I'll speak of the
afterlife
and my joyful expectation
I'll include a prayer
No dice I
can't do it
maybe my life was a hoax
in some sense or other
at least
let it end
as it began
No crutches
6
But
writing poems when you
wake up at death's border
perhaps that's a
crutch
what proud man
with some minimal honor
needs words to talk
himself off
As if death were just
an extended conversation
as if
silence were the danger
as if language were life's answer
to death's
beckon
Asked for the answer
She asked for the question
I say
keep talking
7
Some would call this therapy
but
they're still immortal
and think words a buffer
between themselves and the
end
but I have been waiting
for this conviction of dying
to free my
life
Death is of course no freedom
it's simply nothing
but the fear
of death
adorned with imminence
is art's prize
non-being's muse come at
last
bringing the freedom to speak
It is speech unlocked
raised to
the light
It is flight
8
Why this is my own
Thanatopsis
(how when young I loved that poem)
my encomium to death
a
tribute to the majority
I will join
and an affirmation
(my only
one)
that what I was
I am
At such moments
one states things as
they are
only infancy or innocence
would not understand
how death
serves life
All the doing
loving building
is its tithing
without
it we languish
with it at least go on
It is life's yardstick
its
engine speed thrust
it is the countryside
through which life
travels
the force which moves my pen
It is the stage
for last
words' drama
as for long-range plans
the spur of all invention
and
motive for some lies
Why without it…
why there is no such
thing
9
I find myself thinking of blood
like a Latin
poet
the blood of others
as in some novel
I conclude death is
political
in the sense that love is political
when by its intimacy
it
rejects tyranny
and possession's bondage
And as death excludes life's
baggage
takes only the body
and shortly dissolves it
so death is the
witness
against ownership
and imbecile acquisition
life's blood given
to gaining
and of the bled little remaining
its residue so
trifling
when compared to any body
10
Last will and
testament:
Unsound as I am
I leave you my name
and my freedom
my
goods are worthless
use them up
Pass this to five
others
9/7/96-2/19/97, 2/7-2/9/98
Copyright 1998 by Maurice Leiter
Posted with permission.
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