The Poetics of Dying

Our Dad passed away last weekend. In his passing, he taught the same lessons in death as he had during life;  courage, strength and grace. 

During this emotional time, when the world stood still, yet spun out of our control, I maintained a sense of being grounded by writing poetry. It is something I have done all my life. I have always kept a discrete notebook in my handbag so that my feelings can spill out, guarded by the cold blank pages and the ink. I find a great comfort in it. 

It feels cathartic to capture the poetic of observations, inner thoughts and meanderings. Sat encapsulated in the sterile ward environment, I scribbled on my page in an attempt to explain what was happening, while the platelets of my very existence seemed to shift. 

I did not realise what a great privilege it is to share death with a loved one in this way. To stay close and reassure them with pure love. I'm not sure I will ever quite feel the same although I can't work out  exactly what has changed.

We were in the Funeral Director's and I said that I had realised how important it is to plan for end of life and that I was thinking of making a beautiful End of Life Plan back at my studio, maybe inviting friends to join me. The Funeral Director said he thought that was a bit morbid. I couldn't help but laugh at the irony. Perhaps I would have found it morbid before, but not now. 

There was a postcard on the side advertising beautiful wicker caskets with ivy and flowers inter-twined. I commented on how lovely it was and how I would like one when my time came. The Funeral Director said I would need to start saving as they are very expensive. I told him with a wry smile, that hopefully I have another 40 years left and perhaps I could weave my own in that time. 

I am left with this thought ... 

There is poetry in death 

Just as there is in life

Yet we are too afraid

To speak it

There is a poetry in death

Just as there is in life

Yet we are too afraid
To hear it