If Right Is Wrong, What's Left?
This was written in response to a request for our own epitaphs.
1948 -- Sometime Tomorrow Afternoon
They won't sing when I'm gone. At least,
they won't sing all that long.
The work I left undone's increased
There'll be no twenty guns.
The final word's been said, 'Deceased'.
And that means what you've read.
I would have liked to live some more,
I gave you what I give.
I'd hoped my kicking at the door
Would rouse your quaking flat.
I hope I shocked you to your core
That's what I tried to do.
'This rhyme won't scan', I've heard you said.
'The way it stops 'sabsurd.'
Yet follow still the way you're lead,
Hear what I planned to say
It stops that way because I'm dead,
Forgive me while I pause.
by Barton Lynn Rolsky -- H2G2, 2001
(Since I wrote this, Psychocandy composed a far better and much more general epitaph,
...
That sucked
the walrus said . . .
January 26, 2004
Life goes on.
We have some dreams, we have some fears.
We have some schemes, we shed some tears.
We change our themes, our ending nears.
And though it seems that vision clears
There' no regimes that last the years
And each esteems what's in arrears.
Still, life goes on.
Else, living screams ... and disappears.
Things have changed, here as elsewhere. I will be here more and more occasionally. I will reply to those who wish to communicate, less and less often, till I do not, any more. And that will be that, till it isn't, again, I suppose.
Sand castles just don't seem so important anymore. And, the tide still seems to sweep the beach away. Perhaps, the problem is the moon.
My love to you all and my best wishes.
Barton Lynn Rolsky
Cabbages? I hate cabbage . . . I'm not terribly fond of kings, either.
[email protected]
My Web Page
This was written to a researcher here who was living in an abusive relationship but could not bring herself to see it. I posted it in another thread. When she read it she said (approximately), "I don't know why but it made me cry."
Abuse surviors: This will be hard to read and may be triggering.
The Little Things You Do
(In hopes that I said something useful to
both abused and abuser)
I do not mind at all the way you do not seem to
care
What other men might think is right or even what is fair.
Or, that
you challenge anyone to think less of your mind
For knowing how a woman
really needs restraint. They're blind.
Your manner says it all to me. It's
not respect I crave.
The thing I need more than all else, to serve you as
your slave.
It's not that I require your hand to put me in my
place.
It's not that you have always been so careful of my face.
It's not
that beating down your friends or making one your foe
Is any indication of
some problem you don't know.
It's not that I'm not fearful, rather, grateful
for your touch,
To know you is to love you. You have made me learn that
much.
It's not the endless panic that I might have made you
mad,
(There's no way they will ever make me say that you are bad.)
I would
not ever claim to be the equal of your brain.
I flatly will not listen when
they say you are insane.
How could some stupid doctor ever know the truth of
you?
I love you dearest for those thoughtless little things you
do.
Those things like leaving early when you could have stayed here
late,
The pain was almost nothing, You can't tell me that was fate.
Or how
you sometimes will not beat me, even when I'm wrong.
Like when I stole that
nibble from your cake I'd made too long.
Of course a week was proper to not
eat or drink or dress.
How kind of you not to have let me serve you any
less.
You did not need to get me that grand Hoover that you
bought.
Those many fine attachments weren't as painful as I'd thought.
But
most of all I thank you for the skill with which you showed
Me how to handle
kitchen knives and catch the blood that flowed.
It wasn't that I meant to
kill you. Right now I'm so sad.
I cleaned the mess up so well that I'm sure
you would be glad.
I've hidden most of you where no one ever will
suspect.
I tidy all around your grave. There's no sign of neglect.
Those
little things about you which I couldn't bear to part
With are there in the
freezer sitting right next to your heart.
And every now and then I take them
out and have a cry.
You know I really love you but I still can't tell you
why.
I think about those little things that made my life a joy
The way
you used to make me crawl and play with my dog toy.
The absent way you
brushed my hair away from where I bled
The silent exultation when I knew that
you were dead.
It's times like this I know I couldn't ask for any
more.
Such memories as these are really what a life is for.
Barton Lynn Rolsky -- H2G2,
2002
This was written as part of a suite of poems using a visit to the Empire State Buiding as a central, mystical unity and a metaphor for the mystery of huge buildings which seem to detach themselves from our normal lives simply by their distance and blank walls.
I'm still trying to figure out why no one laughs when I recite this poem.
On the twenty-third floor of the Empire State Tower
A man and a woman were going to jump.
They jumped and they fell.
Yes, they fell hand in hand.
"Hey!" I looked down and called down.
"Good Luck!"
by Barton Lynn Rolsky -- East Lansing, Michigan, 1966
Latest Messages
Messages left for this Researcher | Posted |
---|---|
So long, Barton | Apr 18, 2006 |
my story | Sep 3, 2004 |
worried | Aug 28, 2004 |
Hiya Barton | Sep 26, 2003 |
If you have time! | Aug 8, 2003 |
Conversations
Conversation Title | Latest Post | Latest Reply |
---|---|---|
So long, Barton | No Posting | Apr 18, 2006 |
One Manic Year | No Posting | Feb 7, 2006 |
"glasses:upwards or downwards?" | No Posting | Jan 27, 2005 |
So pleased with this link | No Posting | Oct 13, 2004 |
Why can't he change??? | Sep 17, 2004 | Sep 17, 2004 |
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