The art of dying
This art is made
While one is waiting,
Else it’s not art,
Just a falling over dead–
And that’s not ballet,
No pas de deux.
Waiting in a large room,
And though we’re not alone
We practice our art–
Inwardly and outwardly, both.
We see each other, but
Mostly miss the signs that
Each is creating
An art of dying,
Never knowing when
The project will be complete.
It becomes more difficult,
More tangled,
When the voice in a white coat
Rings out, “You’ve been granted
More time.” No matter that
The artistic process is riven–
The time can’t be declined.
Like a great cathedral
Altered, added to
In every age,
The beauty of our art lies
Not in what we once conceived
But in the unmistakable
Add-ons time lays upon us.
When I sent an earlier version of this poem to a group of friends recently, the responses prompted revisions of the poem and further reflection. The discussion that followed will be included in my next installment–coming very soon. I’d like you to read the poem with your mind uncontaminated by after-thoughts!
The discussion raises points that were not in my mind as I wrote. In fact, the poem poured out, and I had no idea where it was going. The discussion enriched me, however, even if it wasn’t part of my original experience.
I’ll appreciate your responses.
(c) Phil Hefner 1/26/2017
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