Posts tagged ‘Aunt Kathryn’

September 20, 2011

NC

by jhon baker

Holiday Inn

 

lights steady, turned on

at next doors busy restaurant

making midnight an artificial dawn

 

transients sleeping or trying

back turned while

we, looking out hotel window,

eyes wide

in uncomfortable bed

used by thousands.

 

N.C. 4-30-2011

 

–  Hoc Scripsi

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April 30, 2011

now in NC

by jhon baker

From a response to a comment left on this blog    with some additions and edits for clarity, namely my own.

We are now in NC – arriving this morning we were greeted by my extended family as though we were the most dearly loved people of all earth. These are some of the best people I have ever known as they have always been like this toward my wife, son and I.

Lunch, attempt at a nap and dinner with dessert and some memories shared. A beautiful occasion.
It had not occurred to me when I was asked to read the poem and the paragraph from the letter that I would be the only one to read outside of the person giving the eulogy. Out of the myriad of people that my Aunt knew and were ever so close to apparently it was me that she felt a true bond outside her daughters and husband.

I learned today that she kept my book beside her bed where she spent the last eight months of her life and my letters adjacent – often rereading them with utter joy. The weight of the honor I feel and indebtedness to her and her family is immense without being burdensome. We never know how much we truly mean to someone in this life and I am now so touched to know how my letters, phone calls and poetry had lifted her – her daughters even went so far as to say that the letters were a reason she kept going. I only wish she had read the one I was writing when she passed.

though I can no longer dance, I still think every day of the twostep.

That letter along with three more I delivered today among the pile of read/received letters. The total aspect of loss hit me in that moment. If I could ever live so fully and beautifully as she – even half that I would perish a loved and good man. 

Today I read my public testament to her – my words of embrace to her loved remaining here without her deepest constant grace. The most beautiful of words can never offer what she simply did in her warmth and friendship.
Forever I will remember her, always as my beloved friend and her love’s magnanimity.

for your name is scrawled across my heart, for these memories tethered there for all time.

April 29, 2011

by jhon baker

We are on a plane at the moment and this was written before I went to sleep yesterday. I cannot express anything on the status of the planet in the last 24 hours and have no comment on even the birth certificate of Obama.

be well all.

I am sure NC is beautiful and I am told the cherry trees will be in full bloom.

a re-post from the twentieth. 

for Aunt Kathryn

My heart is broken.

the post office doesn’t deliver to heaven.

and you’ve crossed the bridge

and are going home

——–

this is my star.
          bewildered,
     hanging down
     our heads
this is my star.

this is my star,
          vainly wishing and
     wishing on planets
     and suns
this is my star.

on bended knees
with clenching fists
praying or raging at your
Christian God

this is my star,
         to wonder and
     wonder and
     wonder,
this is my star.

 – Hoc Scripsi

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April 28, 2011

For Aunt Kathryn

by jhon baker

As was proposed yesterday: here is the second part that I am going to read at my Aunt Kathryn’s memorial service on Saturday, which we will be leaving for in the morning at approx. 4am.

There needs to be a way that I can step out of my door and straight up to yours, bend space and time, bend light and dark, dematerialize and reconstruct in an instant – there ought to be a way, not eventually, not in the next life but now. It would please me immensely to sit for a cup of coffee or tea with you right now, have a scone or doughnut and laugh at quaint jokes and remark upon the headlines of the local paper. We need this ability more than we need another war, another fastest plane, another super computer or another convening of the Senate.

I lift this coffee mug to you, be well.

with love,

There has been some push back for my want to read this and the poem (read yesterdays blog for poem) selected partially for the reason as it was the last poem of mine she had ever read and this paragraph is the last thing from me she had ever read – both are important to the relationship that we shared and her immediate family who have given their blessing.

I cannot comment too much on the push back but to say – what the hell is wrong with someone when they believe they can dictate the manner in which we grieve? When they can pretend to know what is best in these moments for others. We each grieve on our own, in an individual way; our personal memorials are largely dictated by what we ourselves actually require to heal. What we ourselves need to learn to brave the day without the person we loved so fully.
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April 27, 2011

Listening to Nick Cave and I couldn’t be happier about the rain

by jhon baker

Target shooting this morning, indoors at my favorite range – going with my favorite girl and my favorite pistol. The inspiration for Guernica was laid today in typical bloodbath inspirational fashion.

One of my favorite paintings – another one would be Van Gogh’s wheat field with crows painted shortly before his death – arguably his final painting.

This weekend there will be a family reunion of sorts in NC – memorializing the death of my very good friend and confidant – Aunt Kathryn. I’ve two siblings – A brother (an Actor of Theatre Undreground fame (yes, that is the spelling)) and a sister of Denver Co. Vet tech profession. She will be going while I am sure my brother will be home holding down the fort of my fathers business.
one and a half days there only and I wish death had better timing that we (K, Jackson and I) could spend more time.
I’ll be doing a reading of the last poem I sent to her and the last paragraph of the letter the poem was sent in. I still am unable to properly quantify the loss as I continue to write her letters that I am unable to send. They will be hand delivered to her in Heaven should I be able.

the poem to be read:

the artist dreams of nightsong and thinks of his paintings
 – For Aunt Kathryn

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night
in winter,
though the windows are never open.

I wish the birds would sing in winter
though I stoop to pet a plant
inadvertently knocking over a light fixture.

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night,
lights low, the party over
and missing every painting I’ve ever sold.

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night
in winter,
though purple flowers want their bloom

 – Jhon Baker

I’ll later post the ending of the letter but as of now I am intertwined in memory and bereft with melancholy.

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