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.

PHOWA

Instructions for the about to be not living

Tim Fitzmaurice (Written at the time of the death of my Uncle Vern)

The first day

Beloved, you are surrounded

by another family now,

the family which sees clearly.

We all walk in a fog.

I do and everyone who walks

with me does as well.

We can’t help that.

We can only hope that you know

you are not the author of the fog,

but only a walker, and the world is really

full of light and love.

We have to talk about physical things first.

We have to grab a broom and sweep the doorstep

as clean as we can.

Someone is coming to see us,

Someone who loves us hopelessly.

In her eyes we cannot do a single bad thing.

In his eyes, every petty offense,

even the seemingly most monstrous things

are meaningless because that’s how foolish

lovers are. He is coming to ask for something.

It amounts to nothing more

than smiling at him.

He knows how difficult that can be.

What does he look like?

Well, you know how lovers can try to

be all things to all people. He is.

And build this anyway you can,

whatever makes the most sense.

He can have any face,

any walk, and he can be your father and he can be your mother,

if that is what it will take to be loved by you.

There is someone who loves you

who wants to use this face.

You can drape a white scarf

across his face and he will be satisfied.

This is the hard part:

You must dissolve into fragrance

and fly away from us.

It comes easily to you because

that is what you are preparing for

and your lover is calling you.

We don’t want to make it difficult.

We don’t mean to be possessive. Loving

does funny things and makes every door stick a bit.

With these new wings, however,

you can’t do anything

but climb the air.

O sister/brother of an enlightened family,

the family that we want to be and that you are—

if you look at us from the right angle—

you can open the case we have been packing

for you. It has everything you need in it.

It has soft scarves, food, and thoughtful gifts,

which we knew you would need.

It isn’t selfish to eat them now or

to put on this new clothing.

You are doing it for us

and for everything that lives.

Nothing is confusing about this.

Nothing is hurtful.

And it requires the gentlest movement of a hand

to slip the rope and make the boat float soundlessly

into this quiet lake.

No one will be speaking at this moment.

No one will be distracting you … (pause)

It would be normal to want to look a last time at us,

but everything is in front of you;

We are in front of you,

with all that matters.

We remember how flustered you were

when you heard the children crying

in the museums, in the stores,

in the parks, in the streets.

We don’t hold that against them,

but nothing should shake this boat

at a time like this. If we have the heart,

we can set this boat in the right direction.

O daughter/son of an enlightened family, please listen!

We can only imagine the startling shouts

and noisy winds.

I can see the trees moving right now,

waiting for that rain that just

refuses to come.

Hold onto nothing and let nothing go!

Don’t even think about it, our father/mother,

our pilot.

Don’t worry about what is left behind

or what hitches a ride.

It is all the same to us and to you.

We know that you will see things

that frighten us.

Those are only the things

we have spent too much time

inventing. They aren’t real.

But even those surprising things

tell you something:

Your soul has irresistible music that fills opera houses,

an ocean which you always seemed to hide

in a small package.

Now it spills.

Everyone believes in something,

even if it is shapeless,

In fact, so-called unbelieving

or feelings of uncertainty may be

the greatest piety because it tells us

that you did not want to scaffold your soul.

It does justice to mystery to be mystified.

It isn’t so bad. It does justice to life

to be sorry at going.

Never castigate yourself for loving anything

too much. I need to say listen, please, listen,

please, listen. Hold the image

of the one you love in your heart now.

That’s the best medicine and key to everything.

We are the road.

We move gently and it is us who moves:

to loving.

Someone whisper

the syllable that moves me,

the name of what I love.

Not the smallest thing will

be in my hand. Nothing will be on my lips.

That will be enough and more than enough.

And look what comes from me

At the topmost moment.

Trust yourself now most of all!

There is a small step

from out of one thing into another.

Some people do not pay attention

to that instant of passing

from one room to the next.

But you were always one to keep your balance

And this whisper is a kiss to remind you.

Stop a moment before entering this room

so your lover can look at you.

You were never so beautiful!

And lying in the position of lions when they rest …

The second Day

O friend lover of an enlightened family.

Stepping into the sun, no shadows,

In the mirror, no face looks back,

It can be scary.

Instruction:

When the breathing stops, this

does not mean that the existence

of the soul has ended.

For some believers,

this is crucial moment,

a decisive moment.

Something should be done

by someone. They say

it should be a person

who does not have

the burden of too many sins.

I am not sure; I am not sure

that I agree with all the assertions

about lengths of time involved.

Sometimes they are annoyingly perfunctory,

3 and a half days for this

or that. 

The soul has no watches.

I have read that a day is different for each person.

The day represents the length of time a person

can focus his or her mind

in meditation. If you can meditate for twenty minutes,

then your spiritual day is 20 minutes.

If you can only go for a matter of seconds,

then your day is that long.

It seems like an encouragement

to practice meditation. But I can’t believe

that eternity has much use

for our temporalities, even these.

It may be best to suspend your legalistic mind

and just do the process with eternity providing

whatever background of time it wants.

Still I would obey the advice that you should

be praying with the dying, when they are dying

and you should begin

as they are dying. For people in the west,

it seems a bit extreme to go much beyond

a kind of symbolic period of mourning.

But I do not think there is reason for rushing

through this process. You can spend some time.

I have been fascinated by the 49 days of bardo thodol,

the Tibetan Book of Dying.

But the only goal is to achieve a certain peace.

It would be counterproductive to cling to ritual

after it has accomplished its purpose.

You can only measure this with your soul.

After all the 49 days may be 49 seconds.

Some would say you should look for signs,

the dropping of hair from the crown of the head,

four finger widths back of the hairline,

the raising of a bump,

the escape of some kind of ether or a drop of blood.

I would follow the guidance of my impulse

about when to start or stop. I would ignore any annoying advice

about the limits of time and space.

Do you have to be standing over the body

at the right moment, or can you do the rite

a thousand miles away and a thousand years later?

These are not questions anyone can answer.

But truth is not proximity, as a friend once said.

You can be standing next to truth and not see it.

You can be miles away and see it;

it is facing in the right direction that matters,

no matter how close you are to it, or how far from.

No one should be crying.

This seems like a harsh rule. I wonder what it means.

Sipai:

But let’s talk about weather:

First, there is the rain.

It falls without stopping, in sheets,

a curtain

falls from the eaves of the house.

When you stand on the porch,

it is like a wall. But

you can part it with your smallest finger.

Do you remember the feeling

of wanting to be somewhere else?

Second, the wind can blow so hard

it seems to be going through you.

Tears are blasted from the corners

of your eyes. You want to shout back at it.

Third, a blanket of darkness …

that means not knowing,

the temptation might be to curl up

and fall asleep to think that nothing

can ever be known and that nothing

can ever be unknown.

Fourth,
the noise like the voices

that speak to you in the night

just when you are trying to fall asleep,

those contending voices that keep you up.

Finally,

the collapse into usness.

Lines on a thought by Saint Clare

 “All the way to heaven is heaven.” (St Clare)

Please don’t love me when but while,

not when I arrive but while I climb,

not when I laugh but while I smile,

because all the way to love is loving.

Don’t ask me if I have but give me

everything I need to find release.

Every idle thought might be delivery;

all the way to peace is peace.

All the way to said is saying.

Only true faults need forgiving.

All the way to life is living.

Only silence is perfection,

Only death is perfect peace.

We can only bless by blessing.

Perfect joy and perfect peace

are not the province of anyone.

Every act is a beginning.

I cannot delay peace and loving

until we reach a better day

when all the forces will be brought

together and we can love at last that way.

And when I see you all alone

and looking far away from home,

I can see that –beyond believing—

all the way to gone is leaving.

Your eyes have left me even though

your body and your breath are here.

But they are only slimmest shadows.

The way to suffering is fear.

The way to ignorance is never

understanding what truth might be

but looking only leads to seeing

things you did not want to see.

There is no war that leads to peace

and no abuse will lead to care.

There’s no ship that sails on sand

or castles built in air.

All the way to zero is taking.

All the way to have is giving.

All the way to love is loving.

All the way to life is living.