What Chopin wanted most
was to die
in George Sand arms,
on his deathbed
all he got
Was a nosegay of violets
She left at his door
When her daughter
turned her away–
People can be such shits.
He wrote a friend on his deathbed, “She promised me I would die in her arms.”
How did Chopin die?
Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin aka George Sand, Novelist.
And yes, I’m aware that the event may be based on legend, but many believe it is true and by it’s very intensity, a legend becomes a painful little poem with a nasty but truthful conclusion. It is justified by that truth. “Art is not a study of positive reality, it is the seeking for ideal truth.” ~George Sand
How long it took to know, however hard we wished
There was no return, no starting over for us –
With an ocean between I recall a day in California
The fire of summer inside
Cool blessing of water nearby
Our spirits falling to the clarity of desire and later
Waist-deep in mountain brook I lifted from the current
A king snake without fear:
Nothing could harm me then, doubt had no hold –
How a thing so good twists into something we kill
I cannot say, but if I doubt now
I doubt you like I do God
Who I cannot see, but remember from somewhere.
Perhaps there is no other reason for love
Than images wrecked by time
Memories richer than blood, miraculous ways
That lead to who we are: each of us a wilderness
A wildflower trail, and things without name that linger:
The mysterious scent of the golden violet … California.
I had my annual physical today and all was well.
The Doc. asked if I had any concerns, I said
“I need a strong pain killer for a broken heart.”
He laughed, but I said, “I’m serious.
Nothing but booze helps and that gives me a hangover.
Can’t you give me something for it?”
He said, “Look man, at sixty five
You’ve only just started a difficult walk
Down the senior path and you haven’t seen anything yet!
My advice is enjoy the scenery.”
I wanted to punch him, but his words hit me harder.
— Wasn’t it Harry Truman who said
“I never gave them hell. I just told them the truth
And created it for them.” Or words to that effect?
What is there in the end but forgiveness
And forgiving one’s self.
What is regret when we cannot go back
To change anything done?
We only move forward
To more change, the slow breakdown
Of the body, aging and death,
There is that, of course, but
The quicker one can do it the better:
Live so the need to forgive is less and less.
It is a gift we give, and when we can, is priceless.
Rayn Roberts 2017
snapping from all sides
they ate me alive
I sang a tune
they fell asleep
except for one
hatched in my head.
I’ll tame it at home– but
where is my staff
where is the map
I had in my sack– lost.
I like Of Monsters & Men. Dirty Paws
Morning moves toward noon, a dim moon floats above the hill
It is a skull– In my head as in the eaves doves moan
Mondial irises bloom the color of shrouds
Under a cold sky the cedar trees shutter
The low groan the dog utters is from the chilly rain–
It has always been as the papers say, “Man found murdered
Near Saint Mary’s church” so much blood and pain, too little change.
Rayn Roberts 2017
Bittersweet chocolate, dying is a small event
A flame flickers out as we pay the rent
Spasm of surprise, electric as his Afro blood
Swells the heart open with a media flood
He is gone, and all our love cannot replace
A broken string, the ringing bass
Snapping snare, his pansexual soul, in short
Death is a moment within life– la petite mort
Times two, to honor the artist formerly known
As Prince, who left as we all do, alone–
Just you and me, baby, at home in our room
On a rock ‘n roll-soul bed, he would dig it too.
One of his greatest performances! (Click it)
Rayn Roberts 4/23/16