I see Todd Moore has died. All the poets are writing about him, as poets are wont to do when some popular figure passes the scene. Well, if they identify with his slant on things. But not always.
I published some of Moore's stuff over the years. We had a bit of contact over the years, always cordial and friendly. I was sorry to hear he was gone and he was a very good poet. But I won't be writing any elegy poems for him because we weren't that close.
I did write such a poem when Ben Hiatt died. I had a close connection with Ben, who went way back in the little circus. Ben was a trailblazer in that world in the way most of us are not--I know lots of poets but none who reaches back as far as he did. Ben hung with the real Beats, the ones everyone today tries to emulate.
Ben didn't get a mention in these circles. So here's one for him.
(for Ben Hiatt)
I was sorry to hear that you
had dragged up, old friend,
packed your bags for that
long last trip.
We had a lot in common.
Same age, both of us
rural redneck types who
somehow found the urge to write.
We both came from
families torn by strife,
had fathers who could become
monsters in the shade of alcohol.
Men rattled by the Depression
and the War, men who never
learned to love enough to
equal the hate they bore.
We grew up rough and tough,
lived life hard and fast, out on
our own young, learning
all about survival.
Too much booze, too many women,
it all became a circus
with descending rings, emptying
faster than it refilled,
A reservoir drained through
all those broken rifts, the
run-off of time spilled
out the broken edges of life.
You lost your breath finally,
after years of breathing from a tank,
the heart gave up, couldn't carry
the burden any longer.
Put you down to silence, where
the mountain winds and
the spring sun you loved
never find an entry.
We all go finally to dark quiet.
Some call it eternal rest, this
withdrawal from the quest
to find our place here.
Smoke rattles in
my lungs this morning.
I have no tank-yet-but
I am not far behind.
I raise a cold beer to you,
Tall Man, one a head above
most of the crowd in
more ways than one.
You now know the answer
to the mystery. Soon, I
shall know it too.
May we laugh in heaven
or hell, or in the blank space
of nothing, if that is
our destiny.
I published some of Moore's stuff over the years. We had a bit of contact over the years, always cordial and friendly. I was sorry to hear he was gone and he was a very good poet. But I won't be writing any elegy poems for him because we weren't that close.
I did write such a poem when Ben Hiatt died. I had a close connection with Ben, who went way back in the little circus. Ben was a trailblazer in that world in the way most of us are not--I know lots of poets but none who reaches back as far as he did. Ben hung with the real Beats, the ones everyone today tries to emulate.
Ben didn't get a mention in these circles. So here's one for him.
Elegy to a Tall Man Gone
I was sorry to hear that you
had dragged up, old friend,
packed your bags for that
long last trip.
We had a lot in common.
Same age, both of us
rural redneck types who
somehow found the urge to write.
We both came from
families torn by strife,
had fathers who could become
monsters in the shade of alcohol.
Men rattled by the Depression
and the War, men who never
learned to love enough to
equal the hate they bore.
We grew up rough and tough,
lived life hard and fast, out on
our own young, learning
all about survival.
Too much booze, too many women,
it all became a circus
with descending rings, emptying
faster than it refilled,
A reservoir drained through
all those broken rifts, the
run-off of time spilled
out the broken edges of life.
You lost your breath finally,
after years of breathing from a tank,
the heart gave up, couldn't carry
the burden any longer.
Put you down to silence, where
the mountain winds and
the spring sun you loved
never find an entry.
We all go finally to dark quiet.
Some call it eternal rest, this
withdrawal from the quest
to find our place here.
Smoke rattles in
my lungs this morning.
I have no tank-yet-but
I am not far behind.
I raise a cold beer to you,
Tall Man, one a head above
most of the crowd in
more ways than one.
You now know the answer
to the mystery. Soon, I
shall know it too.
May we laugh in heaven
or hell, or in the blank space
of nothing, if that is
our destiny.
The late Ben Hiatt
2 comments:
Damn good.
Thanks, Mike. I though a lot of old Ben, he was good people.
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