L D D  AN ELEGY

Only when you were dead did I discover
      What I suppose I always knew
That I had given my life in trust to you
      Given away, I should rather say,
The burden my being had then become to me;
And taken at times, taken gently from me
By you, a sister always to her brother.

If I wonder now, when did this work begin,
      Gazing back year after year,
Of course I cannot recall when you were not here,
      The time you took before I could look
Upon you, nor those long months I hung about
Till up and on your feet we started out
Into a world made for our adventuring.

Happy those early days? I think so now;
      No sign in me, my mother said,
Of that jealousy in a first-born often bred
      However mild, by the second child;
And when we crossed the borders of our dominion,
I was glad you proved so brave a companion
Sharing rebukes—and tears we laugh at now.

But as a child, you had a fear I never knew of—
      That our father would leave us,
Take our mother away, no-one would need us
      And we be left entirely bereft
Of love and care—a child’s breathing air;
Not true, but true as children we had to share
That maternal love he had not known enough of.

Because you felt his need would always tend
      To keep her loving to himself
You were often afraid that she would give herself
      Away to him, be there for him,
But not for us: that beam of love poured out—
A light secure in which a child best grows up—
Was drawn from you towards another end.

A single child, lonely and abandoned,
      You later called yourself—
Sad and private words found upon your death—
      Quite untrue they seemed of you
Whose constant cheerful love had been the heart of
Many a hurt or broken life restarted:
So, for that power, you had paid a ransom:

You knew too well how hard it was to live
      Without a love quite centred on you
      (As our Pa knew―and could not do)
How after all duties have been done for you
The heart aches to have and hold a love its own:
You found in whom that tragic seed was sown
And gave what you needed someone else to give

To you, to you. And now that I have realized
      How soon in me you came to see
That only through unquestioned love may a person be―
      I was sent away early in my day
Half-lost the home for love and hope to rest in
Grew uncertain of myself, and soon was dressed in
Dreams of being by a perfect love surprised―

Now that I have realized you then kept alive
      A home where I could always be,
One place where I was freely loved and free
      No questions asked, myself not tasked
With duties or ambitions I could not own
(In such freedom I think all goodness sown)
Now that you are dead who helped me once survive

Now, after nine long years, what can I do
      To help you up to that bright heaven,
Where you did always say your life was driven
      Seeking in your art a purity of heart,
What can I do for you who now can never act,
Your suffering for ever unresolved, racked
By knowing that you perhaps never will be you

Again? O I would beat upon the doors of life,
Demand an audience with the author of it all
And if denied, as I suspect,
Call up the old anger that dwells in me
That now wells in me
Cry out with force renewed
And make the silent courts of heaven
Ring loud with my neglect
A beggar at the doors
In my studied pride
Not allowed inside,
Too sinful to walk the polished floors
And cross the room to God
On his silent throne invisible
But still requiring that he speak
Send out a satisfactory word
Why we are left alone and weak
To face a thing so serious as death?

The weeds grow along the weatherboard,
And no-one seems to come or go here anymore,
So this may be a waste of breath:

But I would say to you
Whom I will
Call God still
And think our final good,
You meant us to have life
Not existence merely
All the powers of mind
Were given clearly
To help us find our way to heaven,
Each idea in the heart of us
Is part of us, and purified
I would think
A symbol of your being, glorified.
What I fear
Because your silence is all I hear—
And in my anger call
The silent impudence of power
Though I know it may be mercy waiting
Until our noisy passions have abated
And we can hear another voice
Speaking through our seeming loss –
What I fear
Is that at the last you have abandoned her
A person dedicate
Who in spirit always sought you
Who would have brought to you
The substance of her being
Now obliterate it seems
Though I cry out in my dreams
And wake myself at night
Trembling at the frightful thought
That she may be no more,
No more.

And did you open up this door
I know what you would say:
She had her day
And sins she did commit
Which she did not ask me to remit
Not penitent
But at the time she died
Still intent
On hopes she should have cast aside.

And I: have you not the heart to see
Her term of life had taught her
We can only be
When we know ourselves
Loved unreservedly
That she in her goodness gave
This kind of love to save
Other beached or broken lives,
Kept in many hope alive
And always ready to forgive
Should she not be forgiven
Let in through the gate of heaven?

And then perhaps this reply:
Do you know she is not here?
Do you know she ever died?
You speak only out of fear
Fear that you yourself will never see her
Fear of course that you will never be here.

That truth would rouse my wrath again:
And I would shout, God,
Let’s have it out, and make it plain,
Do you give us life or do you not?
Let me know if she lives,
Whether you forgive;
And if you do, then give up this facade
This charade of death, and say
How it is that we make our way
From here to there, what form continuous
Brings us
To your everlasting day?

And if any answer came
To these harsh and hopeless words
It just might be a whisper
‘Is she not your sister?
Then go back and discover
What it means to be a brother.’
(This and more we might have spoken:
But the door I think will not open.)

Nonetheless, those last words take me by surprise:
      Haven’t I always been your brother?
Have I ever thought myself someone other?
      So, I must ask, what new task
Still hidden from me should I now pursue:
How can I, as a brother, still help you
When my every cry has met with no reply?

Well, what can I do? I could, what others can,
      Make a catalogue of your art
Collect your letters and so, nine years on, start
      Removing the guilt of having not built
A memorial to the person that you were.
I could. But my hope is that you still are
Alive to us whose life began with us.

If that is so, what could such work achieve?
      You must be changed, changed entirely,
So changed that if you do live, now you are free
      Of the hopes we grow with and die with,
Free in the power that we want a glimpse of
Free in the light we are ever in search of,
Freely living a life we can hardly conceive—

But must believe now to know that you are.
      Memories and memorials will not do;
Not your letters, however much they speak of you,
      Not your painting, though representing
The glory you sought in what you perceived,
Not the happiest memory—these all deceive,
Drawing us back to whom you no longer are.

To beg for your lost being some life again
      I’d’ve made myself your advocate,
Hoping to plead your cause at heaven’s gate:
      Had I railed there, I’d’ve I failed there,
And if now I can find nothing wise to do
I fear that I too must abandon you,
Not knowing how our lives can meet again.

You are gone, I know, and I must let you go,
      Nor hope to look on you once more.
But let me think one thing to grace that law:
      The goodness you gave so often to save
Our broken lives, may work now in each of us,
And if we will, can still find the best in us:
May those whom you loved be those whom we know.

I was happy to be what you made of me
      The person you taught me to find
You lightened my being, unburdened my mind
      And always with you life seemed anew
When you were alive. Now that you are dead,
Now at last I must begin to find within
What once I found only in your hospitality.

But have I the courage to take that course,
      To don the office of your gift?
Tossed in the tumbling ruins of hopes adrift
      If I am to be what you found in me
May your goodness guide this experiment,
Master the rolling waves of restless intent,
Sail the various winds on a homeward course.

Some beauty I do not know must be born in me,
      A terrible beauty indeed,
A flame to burn quite away my self-most need,
      Take fire the man that now I am –
What I presume my self not self at all –
My powers must serve an alien call—
The beauty, that if you are, you now must be.

But if that is a life I cannot discover
      Or will not—more likely true—
I abandon, I know, my soul and self and you:
      If life in me is not to be,
And I prefer the impossible dream
Of keeping all love in a face I’ve seen
Then it’s you I lose, and you your brother.