March 2019
NOTE: These poems depict an event crucial to my starting to write again after a very long period of dormancy.
In 2006 I was desperately ill in Hobart, Tasmania, over 1500 kms from my Sydney home. The ensuing struggle to survive transformed how I view life. In recovery, even the most mundane moment seemed miraculous. Maybe over the following twelve years familiarity has dulled that wonder a little, but not totally. By-and-large, the rush of revelation I gained has remained with me.
In 2006 I was desperately ill in Hobart, Tasmania, over 1500 kms from my Sydney home. The ensuing struggle to survive transformed how I view life. In recovery, even the most mundane moment seemed miraculous. Maybe over the following twelve years familiarity has dulled that wonder a little, but not totally. By-and-large, the rush of revelation I gained has remained with me.
Awakening.
Beyond morphine detachment,
out of the bed’s encircled darkness,
when pain recedes just enough
to let the mind tiptoe
a cautious step or two,
through a small window
in the antiseptic room
comes a gift the darkness brings,
a rush of revelation,
just glint of light playing on green leaves
swaying to the wind’s caress,
sun-dappled tangle of branches,
cloud-flecked blue sky,
but each simple, commonplace moment
transformed, miraculously new,
never truly seen before,
now shouting glory to ears
that had been deaf,
beauty to eyes
that had been blind.
First published at Peacock Journal
Visitation.
-For Diana.
Before dawn I felt a touch.
A cold voice whispered Come.
A pause. Then that voice again.
Your race you have now run.
I shook my head, withdrew my hand,
weakly whispered No.
How can I leave this woman
sitting quietly by the window?
Mr Death I cannot come!
Look on this vignette--
See how morning’s growing light
softly frames her silhouette.
She and I have things to do,
loving not yet completed.
To you I make this internal vow.
I will not now be defeated.
When you some other time return
I may merely follow,
say goodbye to this quintessence
of joy and sorrow.
Now her love and touch makes
your cold grip fall away.
Now I turn again towards light.
Now I again embrace the day.
Revised from the poem first published at Blue Heron Review.
I Remember.
I remember
mumbled words,
tumour, cancer, lymph nodes, chemotherapy, sorry,
light touch of hand on my shoulder,
look of sympathy before the door closed.
I remember
her tender words,
We’ll get through this together, Neil,
her soft kiss, her gentle touch,
her look of love before she left.
I remember
the endless night’s utter despair,
the fierce heat of death’s breath,
the sleepless desolation, the repeating questions,
Is this the end? Here? Now? Like this?
I remember
leaving that pain-wracked body,
wounded from chest bone to pubic bone,
looking at it with curious objectivity, thinking
That body on the bed, is it me?
I remember
travelling somewhere, I don’t know where,
somewhere utterly dark, a lightless void,
and I remember the voice.
I am the God of the living, not the dead.
I remember
how suddenly I returned to my body,
how I lay quietly in the dark night,
how I thought Peace. It has covered me,
lifted me up and floated me away.
I remember
how deeply I slept,
how I woke up to repetition of loved lines.
Was it a vision or a waking dream?
Was it? Did I wake or sleep?
Recovery.
I have been in dark places,
heard Death call my name,
whisper words of promise
to end breath and ease pain.
I have been in clear places,
seen the revelation of light
in the swaying of leaves
so glitteringly bright.
I have been in deep places,
watched in still, joyous trance
bay’s water and light play
in sparkling, bright dance.
I have been in loved places,
gained strength to withstand,
felt promise and gained hope
from the soft touch of hand.
© 2019 Neil Creighton
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