Death of a Poet

I wrote the poem below at the end of summer 2017. 

Shortly after my daughter returned from her travels. 

On 20 August 2018, around 8:00 p.m., I attempted to read it to a small audience assembled in the local university's books shop for a poetry evening.

It was the second time in my life I had ventured to read to others anything I had written. The first time was at the beginning of high school. Both attempts ended in tears.

As soon as I reached the line, ' … when my daughter returned...' a bolt of pain shot through me and tears poured down my face. I left the podium, trying to apologise. On my way home, I became disorientated and lost my way. On the streets, I have known for years. The following day a local policeman came to tell me. That my daughter has died. I knew right away that what he was saying was inaccurate, incomplete. Because the two of us died. It could not be any other way. The poem below had known it —a hideous thing. 

I did not know someone was taking pictures. Then one arrived in my inbox. I do not remember ever hating the image of myself so much.

20 August 2018

Death of a Poet

The stillness of an early autumn evening is
predatory,
disguised inside small pockets of dozy,
warm air,
awaiting.

For the first frost at dawn,  
as fine as the fresh gauze over a new
wound,
barely touching, just
shadowing.  

Before the rains expose the earth anew.  

There have been some rains this year already, 
bursting river banks and washing small
settlements away,
people and dogs swim for each
other.  

Before that, there was a summer without
warmth,
it never arrived,
when my daughter went abroad.  

Where ‘abroad’ extends to any place
outside our floating islands. 

Otherwise, you could say that she went to
visit the home country outside of which lays
‘abroad’.  

It all depends on the name you give
the horizon you see while standing with both
feet planted in the soil.  

We can only ever see one, 
unless you are a character in Murakami’s
novels
two moons might be handy,
it would certainly explain a lot.  

Anyway, it was a slow summer, and I was
teaching myself to write poetry.  
What a mess!  

Silences stretched across summer nights
like the opulent tablecloths,
my dead grandmother made from the thin
white cotton she called ‘konac,'
heavy they were.  

She would lay them across our wooden
table to show their richness.  

All I learned is that poetry is like a fickle
lover; it tempts, it seduces, it intoxicates, 
only to turn away without warning, 
or a word of comfort,  
or a word of hope.  

Still, one waits,
in hope, 
in love, 
for poetry. 

Nowadays, there are serious people trained
for years,
whose job is to name such state
of affairs,
they come up with names like ‘psychosis’ or
‘disorder’.
It helps the rest of the population
cope.  

I learned other things too.  

A man I wrote a poem to more than four
years ago, wanted to know if I still remember it, 
I do,
the poem, 
not him. 

The trouble with people in poems is they
take it for real,
poetry is not real,
no more than our souls or our hearts! 

Otherwise, what would be the point,
you can hug your knees,
they are real enough! 

I listen while my daughter talks, 
pronouncing carefully the names of the streets she
had walked on in Zagreb,
names of people she had met,
dishes she had tasted. 

Watching me, 
for signs of recognition,
I have none to offer. 

The trouble with exiles is that everyone
wants them romantic,
they are not,
your memory makes a fool of you.  

Nobody remembers the bookshop you
swear was on the left side of the square
named after the flower sellers,
smiling at passersby, arranging their
fragrant wares, chatting with the old man
who played the accordion in all weather.

Your words mock you,
you say not what you want but what you can. 
No language would have you, and
that surely is the death of any poet;  
true or imposter alike.