Like this lily on the table
giving its everything to the world,
that’s the way I see your life.
For seventeen years, I watched you
open and open and open—
watched you hurl your body
off cliffs on skis. Watched you leap
on the stage more gazelle
than boy. Heard you weep
when your friends broke your heart.
Full on, my love, that’s how you lived,
the way so few others dare.
I saw you fail and try and fail and try
and fail and try again—every morning,
your petals outspread as you learned
how to be in this world, this world
that does its best to close us down.
You were the perfume of the wide open lily—
in every room you entered,
even when you were quiet,
everyone knew you were there.
Your presence. Your presence.
I honor the way you lived,
splaying wide, then wider,
your heart on full display until
you could no longer live this way.
I want to give myself
to this opening, though it hurts,
though I am left with the absence
of your bloom. I want to honor
the way you charged every room
of my heart with the beauty,
the pain of your being.
I want to open
to the every memory of you—
to the memories where you shine,
to the memories where you
say goodbye to this world,
this world that asks for everything—
though the opening makes me weep,
though the opening asks me,
oh please, god, oh please, no,
not this,
the opening asks me for everything.
Yes.
Yes, and there it is. There it is.
There. It. Is.
Perhaps your beamish boy opened himself one last time, finally and fully to the world.
These two poems by Langston Hughes:
Harlem
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Island
Wave of sorrow,
Do not drown me now:
I see the island
Still ahead somehow.
I see the island
And its sands are fair:
Wave of sorrow,
Take me there.
Oh dear man, that second poem, Island, I heard for the first time just a month or two ago and it completely opened me and undid me. take me there. take me there.
Oh Rosemerry, your beautiful, beautiful boy. This one…this open, aching poem…you witness and hold Finn’s life with such courage, such unfaltering love, opening to everything, every thing…
Oh friend, that is the practice. I am practicing–I so want to be open for this, for the all of it
The beauty, the pain of his being lives In this poem — and so does the beauty, the pain of your being, Rosemerry. Thank you, thank you for opening this beauty, this pain to us.❤
thank you, Helena, oh friend, thank you for meeting me here.
Beautiful, has me tearing up … in recognition, in sympathy for your loss.
oh yes, friend–I know you, too, are practicing this opening.
The way you honor how Finn lived his life so fully reflects how you are now living fully the beauty and the pain that remains. Everything has been asked of you and you give with all your heart. I am humbled. xoxo
the beauty and the pain that remains … that is so well said. it’s so both, friend, it’s soooo both.
“You are the perfume of the wide-open lily…” what a truly remarkable metaphor! I will always remember it, as you will always remember Finn.
Thank you for dreaming it up AND sharing it with us! we grow through you….
Thank you, Carol–thank you for meeting these moments with me–I am so grateful
What a lovely tribute to your son, Merryrose….”You were the perfume of the wide open lily” describes so perfectly the essence of his glory ever in your heart.
Oh that the world was filled with the fragrance of love such as you have for your Finn.
🌹
it is a fragrance, love. it is. And I do sense it, too–i love the way you say it ..
What a beautiful tribute. I read this two days ago and then this morning read this one on A Year of Being Here and had to come back to share it because it’s what you have been living with your love.
https://www.ayearofbeinghere.com/2015/01/michael-leunig-untitled-when-heart-is.htm
Michael Leunig: Untitled [“When the heart is cut”]
When the heart
Is cut or cracked or broken,
Do not clutch it;
Let the wound lie open.
Let the wind
From the good old sea blow in
To bathe the wound with salt,
And let it sting.
Let a stray dog lick it,
Let a bird lean in the hole and sing
A simple song like a tiny bell,
And let it ring.
Oh Barb! What’s lovely is that I just wrote a poem that uses so many of these words! and oh i love the music of this small poem … thank you
Oh, Rosemerry, such breathlessly poetic beauty arising from the ashes of your grief is a remarkable testimony to your agonising loss. But more than that, it testifies to the deep knowing, the true and ever faithful bond of maternal love that anchors you still, and always will, to your darling son. So grateful for this poem but so sorry for your aching loss that inspired every heartfelt word you wrote. x
Oh Joy, thank you for honoring the love, that “faithful bond.” I feel it so profoundly–I am so glad it comes through. Thank you for witnessing, encouraging