Reflections: Senility's Revelations

FINALLY

Observation outlives
comprehension;

Desire endures beyond
function;

Existence outlasts
credulousness.

Amen.

Rodak's Writings: Last Rites - a poem

Last Rites

The slim, laughing girls,

the elegant, agate-eyed women

whom I loved and desired

but never was permitted

to know, much less touch,

come to me now, each alone.

She straddles the stare

of my ancient, fallen head.

Bare feet seductively frame

bone-caged memories,

incarcerated dreams.

The maddening fragrance

of her undeodorized, ‘sixties sex

sifts down like spices sprinkled

on roasting flesh in the Creator’s kitchen.

I thirst, I cry. Wet me, please!

Finally now, at least bless me with that.

Rodak's Writings: A Poem (after Leonard Cohen)

I am still saddened by the passing of Leonard Cohen, whom I consider to have been the consummate lyricist of our times. I recently borrowed from the library his posthumously published book of poems, notebooks, lyrics and drawings, The Flame. I have been leafing through it, trying to decide if I want to buy it.

The first section of the book is titled "Poems." It features pieces of varying length, almost all of which feature short lines and the use of rhyme. This is not a style that I have used much in composing my own poetry; but, in honor of Saint Leonard the Cohen, I though I'd try one:

HERE AND NOW

Life has provided
no answers.
And death does not
promise a cure.
Sleep brings the danger
of dreaming.
But I wake to a pain
that is sure.
I still carry my phone
with me always,
though there’s no one
now here that will call.
With “always” and “never”
coequal,
I hope what I’ve seen
is “it all.”

Reflections: The Beginning of an Ending

Yesterday, I attend the graduation from Ohio University of my younger daughter. Her older sister, and their mother, my estranged wife, were in from New York City to attend. They did not stay with me, but at the house where the graduating daughter is renting a room from an old high school friend, now a nurse.

This visit and these events have somehow caused me to finally give up all hope of ever having what I need to have in order for my continued existence to have any meaning. What I would need to believe can happen for me to have any purpose in life is a reconciliation with my wife, and our purchase of a family home where I can live the remainder of my days surrounded by those things that I have gathered and valued during my 70+ years, and where the family could get together for holidays and special family occasions such as birthdays. I know that this will never be.

A couple of days ago, I was straightening up the little scraps of scribbled-on note paper residing on the desk that houses my computer and printer. Among those scraps of paper I found one, dated 1/8/18, on which I had penciled, among other things, a poem titled, "My Final Poem?"

It is a sorry confession and I make it again, here, now:

I am smart
and I used to look pretty good.
But I am afraid,
so I always fail.
It is fear of death
that keeps me alive,
and fear of life
that urges me to die.
So I fail. 
And, again, I fail.
I have spoken.

Basta.

Rodak's Writings: a Pi-Ku

x
x x

all hope gone
i
abide alone

Reflections: A Random Note

The following was found on my computer table at home, scribbled in pencil on a note card, undated other than by my given age:

I am 72 years old and have reached a place where I know I am going to die. This expectation of death is no longer just an intellectual concession -- it is a gut certainty. It is also a visible and sensual physical perception; somatic, emotional, and on a persistent, conscious, mental loop.

Nice place to be, huh?

Reflections: An Excerpt

I find this to be exactly right:

"I do not think of suicide as the act, the death, the fall from a height or the trigger pulled. I see it as a long illness, an illness with origins in trauma and isolation, in deprivation of touch, in violence and neglect, in the loss of home and belonging. It is a disease of the body and the brain, if you make that distinction, a disease that kills over time."

        ~ Donald Antrim, "Everywhere and Nowhere, A journey through suicide"; The New Yorker; Feb. 18 & 25, 2019

Reflections: I'm Still Alive

Just a quick note here to remind myself -- and the void into which these few words are hurled --
that I've survived another year, another birthday, and another long period of yearning for an end to it all.