BARRY GRAHAM POETRY

love

I. Worst winter in quite a while: the guy who delivered our calor gas was frantic, rushed off his feet. “Never been so busy. And the other boy I work with’s went and got himself arrested — driving without a licence.” We sympathised while he put the gas in our heater and then he ran down the stairs to his van, too busy to be cold.

II. The living room warmed by the oven, door open, grumbling of gas; we’ll sleep in here tonight, on the couch that folds down, duvets brought through from the bedroom where we could see our breath. My wife asleep already, ferocious body warming the duvets; me in a chair, reading, in a tartan scarf and red ski hat.

#poetry #zen #love #marriage

you lie on the bed like sunlight sunlight on the wings of birds

no, you don’t

(this is why poetry is rarely to be trusted: unable to accept things as they are it has to turn them into things they are not)

you lie on the bed like yourself yourself lying naked on a bed

and to compare you to anything else would be to make you less than you are

#poetry #sex #love #zen

It is almost exactly ten years since we shared drunken kisses in an unheated bar in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Later that night, drunker still, a kiss broke into laughter when we rolled off my bed and fell to the floor.

Ten years later: you still in Tennessee, in Nashville, me in Phoenix, Arizona. A catch-up conversation: You told me about your kidney transplants, addiction to pain medication, recovery, getting engaged, breaking it off, buying a house, rescuing dogs, travelling, getting happy. “I learned a lot and am so not afraid of things. It’s pretty great!” you wrote. You said your health was the best it had ever been, and we laughed about the new series of Beavis and Butt-Head. You had just found a new boyfriend: “I am absolutely nuts about him.” Seventeen days later, you died in your sleep, forty-six days past your thirty-seventh birthday.

Writing to someone who will never read it — a worn-out poetic convention, still in use only because of its necessity. Elegies, like funerals, are survival tools for the living. I write these words of love, beautiful Danielle, because silence fails me.

#poetry #love #sex #dating #relationships #grief #illness #death

She is getting in bed when she realises she is out of the half-and-half she takes in her morning coffee. He is still dressed. He tells her he’ll walk to the market and get some for her.

The market is two blocks from their apartment. As he walks, he looks up and sees stars

that have not existed since before he was born. They did not know their light would travel so far.

He finds the half-and-half, selects two cartons, stands in line at the checkout. Light of dead stars, her asleep now in their home. Coffee she will drink when she wakes. A journey

of two blocks in the universe.

#poetry #love #marriage #zen #astrophysics