A Poem For Raymond Carver

(Another poem from my vault...)

--- his eyes so clear, it breaks your heart

so it was written of carver
who lived his dying years
without hope or despair
writing furiously
as he waited serenely
for death

you were not defeated by cancer
i always thought, the alcohol had
screwed your body long before that
long before you took her hand
who took another blind man's hand
over a cathedral, long before someone
was reminded of an elephant
one which was his father's back
long before a telephone woke them up
a strange voice, unknown, and they talked
about death, and about the fear of living
but nobody dies, except chekov
who was already died, in furious seasons
and no cathedral was burnt
and none committed suicide
even when the car was speeding towards the end
was it because you were drinking again?

was it because you found life grimier?
i always find a piece of reality
in the words you write
and because of you
i now have the unsupressible urge
to peer into my neighbour's house
knowing that a story or two
must have been chucked under the carpet
in the furnitures, behind the tv
or maybe it was in the bathroom
or the family car

surely we must all perish one day
with all our stories and poetry
and our lives can never be fully documented
in books or movies or someone else's memories
the world has no space for them
centuries has no time for them
so you took those moments
shining crystal clear yet unassuming
you crafted them into words
like a sculpture where eternity froze
and hid them in your stories
where they can remain
without despair or hope