Do not approve. Still not resigned.
So I gather from twitter (of all the ways to find out) that irishninja died today. I only met him once in person, in San Francisco when he was in town for the weekend, but he was someone I could talk anime and symphonic metal with, and who seemed genuinely happy editing the website for Magic: the Gathering. I would say he had a good heart-- and he did, in the metaphorical sense-- but it was probably the organ which gave out on him.
I wish that I had the words and the focus to write something like this for him, but it was a long day and a long weekend and a long week before that. So instead I find myself bereft, and inarticulate, and full of rage, and wanting to kick something. And linking to poems, because that's all I have it in me to do at the moment.
(Title from "Dirge Without Music" by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Like I said. Linking to poems. It's what I've got.)
ETA: I guess I have this, also.
A Cage of Eloquence
What words are there, when hearts betray
our mortal flesh, make still
our lips, empty our lungs, yield ground--
the field-- to gravity, and entropy, and time?
All words are dross; a cage
of eloquence, to gag
our lips, choke off our wails
of defiance and
our love.
The universe, implacable and deaf
to our small cries, grinds on, muttering
"All will be dust", its voice
a susurration on
the solar wind.
No matter. While we yet live
we howl, and rage, and weep.
Let no friend descend into the dark
unmourned, unsung,
unheralded.
I wish that I had the words and the focus to write something like this for him, but it was a long day and a long weekend and a long week before that. So instead I find myself bereft, and inarticulate, and full of rage, and wanting to kick something. And linking to poems, because that's all I have it in me to do at the moment.
(Title from "Dirge Without Music" by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Like I said. Linking to poems. It's what I've got.)
ETA: I guess I have this, also.
A Cage of Eloquence
What words are there, when hearts betray
our mortal flesh, make still
our lips, empty our lungs, yield ground--
the field-- to gravity, and entropy, and time?
All words are dross; a cage
of eloquence, to gag
our lips, choke off our wails
of defiance and
our love.
The universe, implacable and deaf
to our small cries, grinds on, muttering
"All will be dust", its voice
a susurration on
the solar wind.
No matter. While we yet live
we howl, and rage, and weep.
Let no friend descend into the dark
unmourned, unsung,
unheralded.