Étiquette : french poet

A rainy Sunday at the morgue (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #11)

A rainy Sunday at the hospital morgue
Is the reason for dark humour to exist

I wasn’t required to stay the whole morning and afternoon here
It was only a question of maintaining a presence for any visiting mourner,
Except no one came.
There was supposed to be a bunch of people showing at 4pm,
But they neved did
And the morgue would close at 5.00 anyway.

No coffees and cakes in here.
It felt more like an east-german recruiting office,
Where the applicants are the grieving families
And I sat in the waiting room for too long over my cell phone,
Dealing with the announcement of your death,
Anticipating the following procedures
And having only slept four hours in three days,
While you gently rested in your death chamber…

We had to take a little break from each other, I’d say
I was your first visitor anyway after they moved you here
And you didn’t seem to have more conversation today,
So I left when I realized I’d spent almost an hour
In such a cold and grim space,
_ Looking more like an autopsy room,
And I was gonna start making calls in a funeral home…

Forgive the humour too.
Seemed like the only available drug in a morgue
I asked the intern at the reception
If there was any place to eat over the whole site.
Not on Sundays alas,
And even for the morgue’s medical staff,
Direction told’em :
« The dead don’t eat,
Why should we deliver food ? »

Forgive my hunger as well. Privilege of the living.
By the way, and for what it’s worth,
You look alright as a dead man, really.
A little stern maybe,
But surely not scary or like you suffered a lot

That being specified,
I’m gonna go home now. I’m so exhausted.
I just wanted to see you for five minutes more.
But this is not farewell
Two group visits confirmed this monday,
We’ll have to talk funerals and other post-mortem issues
Of course you never took a moment
To properly write your will down.
If only you hadn’t been so quick to let yourself go…
But that suits you perfectly well, I guess
To make a last mess of your death

Excuse me again for not crying
Maybe later… Maybe never.
Doesn’t mean I love you any less

You were not much of a weeper yourself,
So I presume you understand

Take care of your soul now.
And we’ll take care of the rest

A simple friends dinner (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #6)

It’s difficult to change anything in someone’s space
I only have the spare key, not the user manual
You don’t want me to clean up your mess,
Like those dirty handkerchiefs around your bed for example
Alright buddy, the privilege is yours
But do it for tomorrow,
I’d hate to overstep your dignity

Being your personal assistant is not my favourite part anyway
My secret plan was to make you have a proper dinner,
After I did the shopping, the pharmacy, and other domestic stuff.
It came a few visits later
I suggested you might wanna eat something warm and tasty,
Rather than sodas, fruits, half a cracker, or a yogurt
That is to say not much
And it was not for the cooking pride of it
Our first meal together
Would be a simple catering tray of tagine
Which I prepared in your frying pan,
Cuting the chicken in very small slices
So you might chew them easier and nicer

It was the smell of it in your kitchenette :
For weeks you’d nearly forgotten what food smells like,
What a decent meal smells like,
Taken moreover by the novelty of having it fixed for you
No dinner table though,
And I’d struggle to find us a clean knife and fork,
But here we got, sharing a pleasant dish on your desk
And although your appetite was still short
You almost finished your plate,
With a constant and extatic enjoyment,
Like someone really did you a great favor
Then you had your post-dinner cigarette
And began to tell a few stories and things,
As if having another human home in the evening
Appeared so natural

On my next visit, you insisted on how easier the sleeping came that night.
You had this custom of revisiting the whole day when your eyes closed,
And the summing up for once, had felt so much better
With a simple friends dinner.

This finally happened, you requested help (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #5)

This finally happened
You called for help.
Yesterday was the first breakthrough,
After a month of keeping your distance
And how could I blame you,
I’d do the same, if not longer

I passed my routine call in the afternoon
And you started very frankly :
« No, I’m feeling terrible »

Your first respiratory distress,
And you had to pick a Sunday.
« It’s hard to get a ventilator right now, »
Call us back tomorrow », said the emergency.

I could’t bring you more than support, for lack of oxygen,
And your voice had turned so thin, out of its breath
That almost by fatigue, you suddenly said :
« Oh nevermind after all, come if you want »

Now you looked older, weaker, closer to death
Compared to even four weeks ago.
But I was not gonna face you any differently.
Hence after a while, it became obvious
How just a little presence would stimulate you,
Make you wanna tell stories again,
About this subject or that chapter of your rich biography.

The next day I was hired for the job somehow
A request for a few urgent errands in the neighbourhood

You’d made your last attempt to reach the pharmacy in the morning,
And it failed.
But that’s alright,
I’m taking care from now on.

Don’t thank me again,
Just say you’ll trust me, and that’s fine.

And you’re still in charge of your own dying business, you know

This time you didn’t pick up <> (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #2)

This time you didn’t pick up
I left my deep baritone on your voice mail
And decided to move anyway
It was just like me after all
To prefer a chilly walk at dusk
When a rare blue sky in January
Had just happened

I was not in a particular worry,
Only a step further in my concern
I mean,
You’re just dying
It’s a day-to-day process for anyone
Only goes faster in your case

I walked along the East cemetery,
Knowing it would perhaps be your next location
But it didn’t feel such a gloomy thought
Plus, it is very peaceful in here
Unlike an hour ago
In that crowdy shopping center

This time you did not open
I saw you were home, curtains shut,
But a little lamp of your matchless design was turned on
From you desk probably

Your hands moved,
And I felt somehow reassured
Then went back to the station district
Where the multitudes of the living
Have to deserve their final rest,
And whose effort is so painfully noisy,
So constantly aimless,
That it makes perfect sense
How religions dangle the promise of eternal bliss
I don’t think you’re a believer actually,
But you have to find your peace at the moment,
Which makes a busy man out of a dying body

I knew I’d see you hopefully sooner than death.
And as I’m writing these lines,
Searching for a little human presence
On a heavy cold night,
I witness the same kind of little lamp near by the window
A message for the outside world :
I’m alive, just don’t bother me.

Oh, the bar’s already packed
With too many frenzied folks
Who have no attitude, only grimaces,
Who have no style, not anything close to yours
But these two sitting a table ahead of mine
Look so engaged in taking care of each other ;
And how they hug at the face of another long winter,
Feels right enough for me.

It’s OK,
You’re just dying.
And finishing the poem,
I realize the place is totally empty by now

It’s peaceful and lonely
A little like your cemetery.

Don’t get over

Don’t get over
Keep wounded
With just enough blood and heart
To function
To feel like you’re grounded

It’s better than healing
Cause you never heal anyway

Don’t get over
Stay within the field of fire
And if it burns you out
You’ve come too close
If it steels your heart
Your blend’s too cold

Keep wounded
We all live wounded
For most of our lives

It’s the care that matters
Not the cure
It’s the making you feel better
Not secured

Don’t get over
If your soul resists
If your mind persists

You’re not compelled to heal
As long as you don’t stain the whole river
Or make a flooding wave of your tears

So keep wounded
Feel alive,
Unrested

Follow the hand that brings direction, protection
Not the one that lends medication, salvation

Don’t get over
Keep wounded
With well enough blood and heart
To function,
To be founded.