REST

A Service for the Dead in 15 parts

Tim Fitzmaurice February 1993

ANTIPHON

Recall

without number

without name

the endlessness

the forgiveness

            forgiveness most of all.

When I entered that

narrow door.

So ship misery,

I am happiest.

The weight of years

settle like the fingers

of moths,

like the dust

which is the color

of their eyes.

Recall me.

It is the only much of above.

CREDIS HOC

The world is ending today

for me.

But not so suddenly

as it seems to be ending.

Hold your hand this way

over your mouth.

Close your eyes like so

in the near occasion of death.

The thing that flies up

is the thing

that flies up.

The thing

that remains

remains.

EPISTLE

I have this moment     an immense calm

            I am holding

my breath

while some horse is trotting by.

            I can hear

the sharp clack

of his iron shoes, but I am not afraid.

            I am only waiting

for the sound to dopple away.

I am a sleepwalker for this hour,

waiting to be rudely awakened.

It’s a tightrope.  A test;

Can I love the world

as much as my soul expects?

EARTH’S CHILDREN

We have been hiding over here,

sneaking out of our rooms at night,

fucking like rabbits,

until we have filled

all of it up completely.

While we were hiding over here,

the lights have grown old

and tremble slightly

before going out. We thought

we were a shout in a storm.

Since we were hiding over here,

we couldn’t see

the last minute packing,

the hurried goodbyes,

the witnesses smiling and weeping.

Among our hiding over here,

we were sleeping

when we should have

overheard

the very last word.

Although we were hiding over there,

we made a language of secret coughs

and made up games among ourselves

and hurt each other   Perhaps

we are up to no good.

THE WOMAN WHO WALKS, or NO VALISES

I’m sorry but I’m happy

that when I will go there

I can leave all of the valises behind.

I can’t imagine dragging

even my littlest toe

which I love

but which must stay.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even though I know

that I will look silly

wearing all my clothes,

everything I own

on my back,

the woman who walks,

who walks, who walks

all day,

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And when I walk

up to my old house

and it smiles

in that way

and forgets my name …

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

A PORTA INFERI

I have corridors

where no one goes

and corridors

that no one knows

and corridors

that lead nowhere.

I have rooms

where no one sleeps

and rooms where

someone never weeps

and rooms without air.

and I have balconies

where eyes see me

and balconies

where I see sky

and balconies where I can stare.

I do have doors

upon the various sides

and doors

where something awful hides

and doors not there

AT THE GRAVESIDE

When the rains wash our footsteps away,

others will come to the very same place

and say,

We are here for the first time again

and they will stay

for a brief rest and

when the rains wash their footsteps

away

the world will be new again.

and then …

HYMN: REST

In music, the test between notes

provides the edges, the cliffs

that make mountains climb.

In mountains, the slopes

where rivers fall,

stream music.

IN THE FIELD OF DEATH

An orchard

and assembly of dates

this space occupies

a dozen or six dozen years

or one hundred and sixty-six dozen.

Years since Christ wept

and since Christ walked walked

in the orchard of olive trees.

Press these olives

and even their hearts,

their dry heart stones

will give up a soft oil.

These same trees

that birds stand on,

 my lovely ornaments,

anoint me!

GRADUAL

From here the road seems to lead

with circlings

directly to the sea

across a green pasture.

It must be a dream,

 a trick of heaven.

Cities and robbers line that road.

I know it. I’ve seen them.

And I know it.

But the road from here seems

to lead with circlings

directly to the sea.

OSSA HUMILIATA

Whatever I am given

will be enough.

It will be seed

for forests, for gardens.

It will be stone

for bridges, for buildings.

Whatever I am given will be enough.

If it is sharp,

            I will carve.

If it is dull,

            I will grind.

If it is heavy,

            I drop it.

If it flat,

            dance.

EPISTLE

I have this feeling of sitting

near death. And we are familiar.

We don’t exchange words or looks.

Each of us is distracted by the same cloud,

the same birds.

We both hear

the wet redwood trees

creak and squeal

in the wind

We both see

the steam rising

in the winter sun

from their red skin.

GAUDIAM et LAETITIAM

When I hear the songs of frogs,

when I hear them say my name

and see the moths blink

on the fallen logs

or catch whispers

of the few coyotes,

the cold stare of raccoons,

when I hear the songs of frogs,

I never answer.

When I smell the desertion of birds,

who leave the trees

quiet …

LIGHT BREAKS

Each single night

I reassemble us.

Each single morning

we divide.

We’re lucky to have

each other.

We never know

how lucky we are,

until it‘s dark,

dark.

Each single night

I reassemble us,

each single heart,

each single night.

FINAL ANTIPHON

Recall

without number without name

the endlessness and forgiveness,

forgiveness most of all.

When I entered

that narrow door.

So ship misery,

I am happiest.

The weight of years settles

like the fingers of moths

like the dust which is the color

of their eyes.

Recall me.

It is the only much of above.

I wrote this series of poems in one day which is not to say that this makes them good only that it is something that came to be in a special way while I went walking in the redwoods in Santa Cruz for hours and hours in the wintertime. They are only slightly revised. The experience seemed to be a premonition of the sudden death of a family member that same month. I was not under the influence of anything by the way. Whatever their value, I love them; they bring me back vividly to that day and that place.