Prose Poem

A poem should not mean
But be.
Archibald MacLeish, "Ars Poetica"

I've thought about writing a poem about Dave, but I've asked myself this: If I do write this poem, where do I begin? Dave's story has no point of origin; even his birth seems as random as his death, and he likely got younger the older he got. Death for him was simply a return to the pre-birth state of pure energy that seemingly spontaneously yet purposefully became life. There is nowhere to begin, let's not even talk of the ending.

And how would I write it? How must it feel? It can be sober, grave as gray, but this isn't the spirit of Dave. The spirit is vibrant, life-affirming. But it can't be all praise and good times; there must be some dark moments there, some "ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas" if I'm to report the complete and utter truth. Or must it spring of its own nature and use me as a vessel of its revelation? If so, I haven't gotten the call.

Does it have to be personal, or are the themes universally appreciated? I can make it personal but that might be too painful; I can make it a case study but that might be too convenient. The approach, then, has to be strikingly unique and maintain throughout. It must endure, not only throughout but through time. It's not about making a contribution, poetry has had more than its share of those. It's about leaving something meaningful for my niece and my grand-children.

Does it report or ask? Certainly, every fact will be followed by a question, and every question by empty silence. This fact alone should render questions null, but they won't go away--they're much too sticky for that. After so long, the questions will become the margins.

Does it meander or get to the heart of the matter? The fun in leaving riddles, puzzles and enigmas might be too tempting to resist, but this is pure vanity and ego--and remote from the spirit of Dave. Truth is simple and doesn't require too many, or flashy, words. So I may have no other choice but to leave the epic saga for another, more frivolous lifetime, and focus this one on a beautiful haiku.

Does it speak or does it listen? How can a poem listen? A poem listens if you listen. If it speaks, there is the fear that it will never stop speaking, that it will be an endless manuscript. Can I risk that? Can I even say that much?

Dave's poem begins and ends nowhere and everywhere. This poem is a river that comes full-circle. This river is Tennyson's brook:

       For men may come and men may go,
          But I go on forever.

And, like a river, it is the vein of the world, nourishing its darlings with water--an ever-renewing source of life. Dave's poem must be exactly all of this, and nothing less.