We die.
No news to anyone here,
but in all the lush and frantic
moments that make up days,
the inevitability of death lies in a sealed envelope
in the victorian desk drawer
locked with a key.
The heart knows
the time and the manner,
I suspect, and
that beating soft and tender fruit of life,
mine,
calls to the icy fingers of some immortal
to hold me in a mango death grip squeeze
each night.
This heart, I suspect,
thinks it good
that my body battles the passing of me,
in the moments of desperation for air.
My horror dreams
have me up and out of the bed,
turning on lights,
but light does not provide oxygen
and the outside summer thickness
hides oxygen in blankets of steam.
The cat wonders if he is dreaming
as I join him under the moon.
The life dream has lost its key, dear cat.
I can not go gently, just yet,
and the night is not good
who steals from me not only what I think of as me
but takes my loves and drowns them
into the depths of the sea.
At night, I am living death
as a calling to look deeper
to unlock and open the drawer –
to do whatever it takes to find out
who is the I am
who never dies
before I do again.
Life as Improv 
When I was a boy with childhood asthma
and thought at times that each breath
might end me, I had moments, glimpses
of release. All my life I have tried to get
back to that attitude I learned as a boy,
to crawl out of this clinging into the open
space of being, to the “I am who never
dies” but only collapses into the 10,000
things, a new multiplicity of manifestations.
But these days, both the time I have and
the time I’ve lost–future and past–terrify.
I want to pry apart the fingers of longing,
release myself from its grip. I’m trying to
learn how to earn each day’s dying. And
each rebirth.
I am repeating a pattern in my sleep that feels more real than any waking hour. The mind closes her eyes for just a bit and the jaws of death clamp down again and again, so vividly, I panic and quake in bed, in the house, outside, even, in hours outside of normal. I cannot escape the body itself. Pressing: how to release beyond ideas of what death is, how to give in to the suffering of the body, how to relax into the breath as the teacher. Your writing is particularly beautiful, M.
Proved once again, you are exemplary poet
So kind you are! Words rise out of some apparent need that lets me listen in, much like the way I like listening in to yours: https://fouzul10.wordpress.com/2015/08/29/an-empty-heart/
enjoyed this
dramatic exploration, marga!
i’m seeing melting back
into the tub
of ice cream
as i eat it 🙂
Oh, your seen/scene is so sweet.
You help me remember
whipped cream and cherries –
for certainly they are as real
as anything else is, too!
it’s so sweet
we can go
as dessert 🙂
I think of death often, M. I think perhaps I’m not the only one… I think the Dalai Lama once wrote we should do so everyday… 🙂
What I think of is the sweetness of falling into the endless cushion of being– finding it familiar and ubiquitous, finding it complete. I think of the welling up of anxiety that may or may not precede this sweetness, and then I think to myself: this sweetness is available right now… What are we waiting for? What are we holding onto that keeps this away? It’s possible to take a breath without the baked-in worry that something could be taken from me… There’s a way of identifying with experience itself that absolves us of these heavy questions…
Last night in my dreams I was chased by a bear. I haven’t remembered a dream in quite some time, but twice last night the bear came for me. Was it the moon? Once close to two decades ago, at a particularly significant time, I had a dream I was willingly allowing a bear to eat my heart right from my chest. How much do we have to give to finally surrender to the sweetness!?! Perhaps some nights, when the moon is full, Hafiz becomes a hungry bear!
I see such love behind this dying, M. Such concern for loved ones. Such concerns for what one’s own heart still has to say… Such concern for living…
Michael
I am touched by your kindness to visit such dark, scary places…
In the light of day, I shake my stick at these experiences and say, what was all that fuss about, but in the night it has been full blown panic – very much a dying sensation.
The moon and Hafiz must enjoy their luminous ritual, tromping through the subconscious minds in slumber, pulling costumes from the largest theatre dressing room imaginable. Cue bears and boats, hearts and cold watery depths, what a show!
I paused for a good long while, days even, over the phrase, “There’s a way of identifying with experience itself that absolves us of these heavy questions…” There’s a way…perhaps even that is enough just to know. m
I really warm to this work Marga, and you seem to have captured well an old British flavour somehow, perhaps evoked by your references to Thomas and Victoria.
Odd that many should fear the one thing they never may experience; perverse too is it not, that what experience may be had be filled with imaginings of nothingness?
Everything odd and ironic and complicated once I start the words and rumination after the fact. Perhaps there is a way to just feel it, and then feel what is next – seems easy to move on after the storm clouds move off to sea – but in the midst of the storm, nothingness sure seems big somethingness.
I am delighted to channel even a tiny sliver of British flavour, perhaps I will dream of high tea tomorrow. That sounds more fun. 🙂 Always a treat to see you, H! xo! m
True indeed Marga, and we seldom can effectively philosophise away our emotions – try as we might – nor guess with accuracy what they may be at whatever imminent event. H ❤
Beautiful poem, Marga.
But I am sorry to hear that you have trouble breathing at night. If that is really a lesson for contemplatingn the I AM, then I hope you find the I AM soon.
Best wishes for your health,
Karin
Karin,
I am so glad that I did not disturbing anyone with my night time panics until the breathing trouble passed. The caring nature in your words helps me press on to that bigger yet simpler question
in gratitude for your encouragement!
xo! marga
I am moved by your poem into remembering, again, that this life will end one day. I agree with the Dalai Lama. We should think of death every day. And like you, there’s a yearning to find out who never dies, before I die, and at the same time feel powerless to do anything about it. Swept along in this life that Life/the I am apparently wants to live I can only put one foot in front of the other hoping I’m headed in the right direction.
With love
Alison
Much like the dream I had a while ago, this Dalai Lama lesson has revisited a few times, lately. I’m headed with you, one foot in front of the other, hoping. 🙂
xo! marga
What seems to be a life is a woman is a man dreaming. Unkown yet known. One can reason, others, can they reason them selves. Perhaps, such a dream of as you stated in your piece. “Who the I am is?” (A mere speculation,on my part.)
I wake from this tough dream – and someday I will wake from the dream of the waking life, too. (mere speculation…everything:)
My dear friend, you’re becoming the Monet of words. What a delight.
you send me into a little grading break, looking at water lilies online, scheming to plant my feet on the earthy ground at first chance. hello to you desert dwellers this morn!
By reading this blog it seems to me that we need to remember that we are mortal and by remembering it everyday will make us be in the moment and enjoy the moment and feel great to have a moment. I don’t know much about losing someone through death but just that it is the truth and maybe one day i’ll enjoy that moment too. I suppose that the moment will be a clarity and gives completeness to life.
So ironic the way death (in contemplation) can bring one more to life 🙂
Marga. I have read this post several times now. It is really powerful. I have had my dates with death, though not like this, and I know it is a commanding force that brooks no interruption. I will say, that it seems to be selective on these occasions, giving a gift wrapped in writhing snakes to someone who has the potential of weaving nimbly through the gaping and fanged mouths. It seems the trick is to stop fearing the venom, at least it seems that way for me, though I’ve not achieved that fearlessness. But here, you become the snake charmer, adding music to the dance, or dance to the music, or both. Thank you for such brave and tender words. I dance to your music.
You are the snake charmer, A! What a gift to glance in my own mirror expecting my own reflection, yet be met with the likes of you. I can see and hear your weaving of words that help me in my dance toward fearlessness – – I know that you have a post, and for days now I’ve been trying to get there, but the life flow right now demands a different rhythm – plus I enjoy having that visit to look forward to…xo! m
Hi Marga,
Every time I get somewhere, I stop in my tracks. Your poem here, and the words that follow, make me never want to leave the screen. Why is that? How can this text and font built of 1’s and 0’s hold so much humanity? At night, hold yourself in love. For you are very loved. We all are. ❤
Aloha, Ka
Oh Dear Ka,
I feel your pause in this clearing. The love that holds me is felt! There is an awareness that what arises is just right for right now, and placed in my path when I have the directness to face it and move on through. Smiling at your beautiful red tree canopy – xo! m
So very lovely in its strength and deep quietness . I love your poem beautiful Marga and the title haunting and yet so sweet ….love , megxxx
thank you, megxxx 🙂
(your name sounds like a super hero – megxxx!)
xo! marga
i hope you’re well. struggling myself with the need of oxygen, since the beginning of my conscious days. i had a very stable 12 years, till february this year. now it has become frightening again. and the doctors, they don’t know … those i visit have never experienced first hand, and see me as just another spot in their statistics … sometimes i see the light but i often experience the fear.
wishing you the highest peak flows and fev’s, and a stable condition with always enough air to deeply fill your lungs
… and love
Oh, Mr. Bert. I can so relate. This vessel, so miraculous, is so seemingly vulnerable to such basic necessities – water, oxygen, food… the air one, especially, triggers powerhouse survival chemicals – an emergency siren goes off internally pulls out all the stops! I don’t have words, and perhaps that is my incentive to try some poetry – it feels like death, and in all reality, is probably worse than the real end transition because it makes no sense. Mind can’t wrestle it down. I am sending you the same as you send to me- I imagine love has much to do with the air deeply filling our lungs. Soothing, easing love sent your way!