AUDREY’S POEMS
FOR MOLIERE
FOR HANK
My mother never failed to surprise. She was a chip of old Yorkshire – never at a loss for a word, and sharp as a tack. Here is a picture of Audrey in her 50s.
AUDREY’S FUNERAL VERSES AND ODD THOUGHTS
I hope this will be the start of a great Adventure
for a roving gypsy mind –
because that’s all that’s left of me.
To visit Jupiter, Mars, Venus and Saturn –
without a Space Ship to impede my progress.
To explore the very depth of the sea
amongst strange fish and corals –
knowing I won’t be drowned or eaten.
To dance with the Aurora Borealis –
– not just watch it.
To roam again the Yorkshire moors and dales.
To touch the sun and not get burned.
To climb mountains, without fear of falling.
To explore Forests, Caves, Deserts and rest on a cloud
like a huge feather bed, or in the bell of a hyacinth.
Perchance to meet old friends
and talk of lives long gone.
Is there a library where all the books
that were ever written are preserved?
Are there records to be played
of all the music ever dreamed?
These are the things I hope for.
And perhaps to meet other
travelling minds on the Quest.
This is what I hope for. –
Who knows?
REMEMBER ME
Remember me by the People I love,
Family, Relations and Friends,
Circuses, Housie and Story Books
Who knows where the Story ends?
Remember me with Laughter,
Remember me with Song
On Sunny Days and Moonlit Sea
and Stars to Dance among.
Remember me at Samhain,
when the moon is riding high.
Remember me at Beltane,
when the fires are blazing nigh.
Remember me in these homely things,
Kippers and homemade wine,
Fish and chips and mushy peas,
pork pies and pantomime,
Fair grounds, fireworks and Bonfire night,
Dusty, hot stone-walled lanes,
Last of the Summer Wine on TV,
rainbows and summer rain.
And now I hope to take with me
The memory of these things too
And so as you are remembering me,
I can also remember you.
Happy meet, and Happy part, and Happy meet again.
Blessed Be.
Audrey.
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And here, by way of contrast, is a poem I composed to celebrate the life, and honour the death, of the French playright Molière. It was presented to the audience as part of the curtain call at the end of Le Malade Imaginaire. One feature of the play is that Argon’s chair is always on stage. The poem explains why.
On the Death of Molière
(Argon addresses the audience .)
Dear friends we are glad to bring you pleasure,
And you’ve responded in full measure.
Just one last thing we’d like to tell
Concerning Molière’s farewell.
This prince of actors, alas the day,
Died while performing this very play,
Not on the stage…. I hasten to say
Though he might have wished to go that way.
He struggled through that final night,
And those that laughed saw not his plight,
But the actors knew. They saw each fumble,
Each little start, each little stumble,
Stood ready to enter should he tumble.
(You see)
Not a one of them was certain
He’d make it to the final curtain.
But he did. He bowed. The curtain dropped.
He reached the wings, and there he stopped.
Twas some time later in the night
Molière gave up the mortal fight.
So now you know why this chair
Is centre stage, and always there.
Too ill to move or dance, he’d sit
Entertaining royalty with his wit,
Until he passed, as all men must,
Like chimney sweepers come to dust…
In sixteen hundred and seventy three,
It could have been yesterday to me.
But this last thought of his we’ll give.
(He once said)
“We who live to please, must please to live.”
So raise your hands, give one last cheer,
For Molière our playwright dear,
For Molière who once sat here.
Thank you.
(Actors join the applause for Molière.)
Composed for the production of The Imaginary Invalide
for Stagecraft Theatre, Wellington. 2005.
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Let me say from the outset that I never knew Hank. However, I attended his funeral because I wanted to offer support to the woman who loved him. Following local custom the coffin was open and we filed past. It is the stillness of death that appalls me. That, of course, has nothing to do with the person who has died.
HANK
There is no stillness quite like it.
No lake at dawn, holding the moon
nor heron poised atop a stump.
No supine David or coy eyed nymph
suspended for the breath of life –
though soldiers on a cenotaph
come pretty close to this I think.
It is death I speak of. For that
which should be gust-full of life
is stranded now, twixt shore and sea
not man nor yet an artist’s dream,
and I, who never knew him, watch
to give some meaning to his sleep.
Meaning? My own mortality,
for what I see I shall become.
Yet still I hope that when I’m gone
I’ll not be seen so lost of strength.
O close my coffin, seal the lid!
Let memory save, for good or ill,
the things I loved, the things I did.
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