The verse is never the problem;
facing stark truth, that’s the
problem.
Some verses are too near the bone,
too near... I shouldn’t have said
that,
not bone, not on a birthday card.
The verse flows easily enough;
it’s the shrouding - enclosing -
card
that’s so difficult. I mean,
why flowers? Why ephemera?
Why a sad-eyed dog? Does he
fawn at the feet of the angel,
waiting for that walk in the dark?
Cocktails, bubbles? Celebration?
Or a drowning in dead water
under the bridge, mugged memory?
And then to run off laughing,
or...
is it only idiots who cry?
The card, always that’s the
problem.
It must be poised, crisp and
shiny,
nothing limp about this message -
courageous, calm, defiant.
The colour must be blood-red,
blank; no pretty pictures, nothing
-
saluting with stark bright gesture
the wrenched effusive agony
(a while back now, for most of us)
that launched us all on ebbing
tides
that suck us helpless to a shore
beyond the limit of our sight
that some know fearfully as death
and some as new horizons. Which?
No, I’ll pick empty blood-red
card,
with no offers of condolence,
questions, but...maybe one small
hole -
cut through? - that the unseen
turmoil
of the doubting spirit printed
deep with irresolution
may trade dreams through the bleak
stiff face,
keep faith in happy birthday
worlds.
(April,
1989)
