At The Funeral Home
Submitted by Aldon Hynes on Fri, 12/21/2007 - 11:59
There is something wrong with the air.
It feels heavy.
It sits awkwardly in my mouth, my throat, my lungs.
I cannot breathe.There is something wrong with the air.
It stings my eyes.
I look around frantically for a glimmer of hope or joy.
I cannot see.There is something wrong with the air
It clogs my ears.
I listen numbly for the sound of laughter,
But hear only crying.It isn’t the fragrance of the flowers.
It isn’t the dim light illuming the coffin.
It is the emptiness
Knowing a friend is gone.
Yesterday, Kim and I learned that Dot Driscoll has passed away. We met Dot years ago through the Dean campaign. We worked side by side on that campaign, the Ned Lamont campaign, and numerous progressive causes. She was a member of the Darien Democratic Town Committee and a close friend.
I've been experimenting poetry again. I wrote a lot of it when I was younger and want to add it into my mix of writing here. I am torn. I don't want to sound all teenage girl emo in my posts. I want to give Dot he proper respect.
After much reflection, I have decided to post the poem here, along with these notes as a tribute to Dot. I have decided to add it not only to the Personal and Poetry sections of my site, but also to the Connecticut and the Politics sections, since, at least in my book, Dot was a very important political figure in Connecticut.
She will be sorely missed.
Teenage Girl emo
Submitted by Tessa on Mon, 12/24/2007 - 14:22.I believe that "teenage girl emo" is a valid form of expression. When I started writing it was to express for others what perhaps they couldn't express on their own. The starting point is imitation, then comes emo.
I know you don't mean to downgrade we teenage girls...even when buried deep inside adult chests. I know you better than that, I hope.
If what one writes sounds younger, more raw, less sophisticated, pointy, overwrought, soft, psuedo-sarcastic, naive, redundant, breeast-beating, fancy, or pale green, all is good.
It is the writing, not what is written, when a fresh death is confronted. Today I got an alert that someone had posted additional material on my deceased most adored, though it has been 2 and a half years. Like a trainwreck I had to look. Freshly angry at the posts of the one who he loved more. Talk about your emo! I was in my twenties when the great love bloomed and was rejected. Sometimes we never recover our balance.
I am loving you for caring so much about someone that you are unmasked as a teenage girl who looks like a bearded father and husband.