This long, rambling poem/monologue is the product of sleeplessness, reading a fictional account of the death of Jesus and Clive James's self-penned poem about impending death written in 2014, but widely shared last night on social media in the light of his demise. Please don't seek to compare this to his piece - there is simply no comparison. He was a genius, and I do not use that word lightly. Also I should also say that the characters in this piece are not anyone living, dead or dying, although it is obviously influenced by my experience. I am also, not dying (I think) at least not imminently, so don't worry about me any more than you usually do...
Has it come to this?
I’ve been in this hospital room many times,
Or if not this one, many like it.
Ministering to others.
Praying prayers that neither the dying
Nor their companions could hear
Over the din of impending death.
Reading words from a book
That many of them think
Is as dead as they soon will be.
I’ve had them all here.
The benefit of clergy.
The chaplain - with no collar on
Just a faux-frown, a name badge
And religious language
To distinguish him from a doctor
Or a porter,
Except even the porters wear uniforms.
The young minister, recently appointed,
Who rarely visited before I ended up here,
And seems uncertain of what to say
in the presence of a pastoral fossil.
A procession of my peers,
Here to see if I will
Beat them to the finishing line;
Jockeying for position
Over who will have to pronounce
That I have run the race,
I have fought that good fight
(Sometimes with them)
And kept the faith,
Though not necessarily in that order.
There have been so many
That I know my wife would have wished
To drive them from the room,
Like Jesus cleansing the temple,
With or without a whip;
Especially when the President arrived
To bring the prayers of the whole church,
Like a pious postman.
I don’t know the man, nor he me
So why should he be a spectator
Of my sadly slow decline?
But she said nothing
Rather she graciously accepted
Each clerical intruder in turn,
Surrendering me to the church in death
As she had often done in life.
My real friends (some of whom are clerics,
Some even Christians) and family
Have also been here constantly,
Changing the guard
According to some unwritten rota,
From the time they knew
That I wasn’t walking out again,
This time…
Because there have been many
False alarms recently…
The last trump prematurely blown,
As different organs have shown signs
Of a lifetime’s lack of self-care.
Until finally there was no way back.
Slipping away,
Unable to do anything for myself,
Thankfully spared the pains
Of recent years by the miracle
Of morphine.
They think that has rendered me
Unconscious,
Just because, unlike myself,
I do not respond with words.
I cannot speak,
But even if I could
What’s left to say?
Words were my stock-in-trade
And I used plenty in my time.
Now I just listen.
To the inconsequentialities
Of conversation across my bed;
Football, films, food,
Relationships and rugby
People and politics...
Politics –
Not sad to be leaving that behind,
For a new regime.
A new heaven and a new earth
Where there will be no more
Death or mourning or crying or pain
Or bloody politicians.
They will have passed away
With that sea, which will be no more.
I will miss the sea.
Though of course I know that
All of that is just John's apocalyptic poetry
Although such poetry holds more reality
For me than concrete prose.
I long for a poetic paradise,
Rather than the prosaic reality,
Of catheters and cannulas,
The smell of antiseptic and decay.
I cannot speak, but I can smell
As well as hear,
And each scent conjures up
A lifetime of memories,
Good and not so good.
Oh for the scent of bacon buttie!
Although strangely, I am not hungry
For the first time in my life!
However, I thirst,
Like Christ on his cross.
I thirst,
And like those watching him die
My watchers lift a sponge on a stick
To my lips,
Soaked, not with wine
But water.
I could do with a little miracle,
Turning that water to wine,
A fruity shiraz, or full-bodied rioja,
Rather than additive-filled
Non-alcoholic
Wesleyan communion wine.
But even that would do to
Put flavour on my palate
Or rather to displace
The taste of putrefaction.
Putrefaction – there’s a good word!
I savour that as I suck,
At the sponge on a stick,
Proving to my watchers
That I am still here;
Suckling in my closing hours
As I did when I entered the world.
It seems like only yesterday
I watched my children
Suckling in a hospital bed,
And here they are now watching me…
Or most of them are
He’s not.
He’s too busy.
As I once was.
My God, my God why did I forsake him
So that he has forsaken you?
Assure me that you have not
Forsaken him...
Just as I trust that you have not
Forsaken me in these last days.
Though it might seem
And feel that you have.
Could I have done more?
Should I have done less?
Into your hands I commit my questions.
Into your unseen hands I commit my spirit.
Into your unseen hands
And each other’s care
I commit my loved ones.
I can do no more.
It is finished.
Shalom
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