mjh's blog

101°

101°

Glenn Gould plays Bach
as I step on that distant shore.
Handing my coppers to the boatman,
I look up the bank for you
among the crowd
scanning the new arrivals for
old friends
to lead across the fields
when the dog barks –
1 head, not 3 –
I’m not dead yet,
as Charon’s ferry folds
into the sofa,
where I shiver
in fevered dreams
between two worlds
not ready for either. mjh

first published 3/9/05

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My Virtual Chapbook (table of contents)

at this very moment

If you are wondering
what I am doing
at this very moment:
I am writing a poem
that might be read
long after I’m dead
by someone not yet born,
so that I might know
what they are doing
at this very moment. _mjh

3/08

Listen to at this very moment

My Virtual Chapbook (table of contents)

The Bright Side

“When he’s dead,”
she says,
“I’ll finally get that dishwasher.”
“And when she’s dead,”
he says,
“I’ll knock a pass-thru to the kitchen.”

Either could have what they want now
but these are little improvements
they can look forward to
as if one day
the end of the world
could have a bright side
like that trip to Europe
after the dog dies. mjh

11/14/2004

There could be an upside to death, at least, for the survivors.

Listen to The Bright Side

My Virtual Chapbook (table of contents)

Update 2012: She got her dishwasher and he got a counter far better than a pass-through and nobody had to die, yet. http://www.edgewiseblog.com/mjh/uncategorized/kitchen-remodeling-for-dummies/

The Heaven of Animals

The meadow is his home now.
Up high in the mountains,
he lies in the shade
in a circle of trees
among the wild iris.

He yawns and stretches,
flips over
and rolls and rolls,
groaning in pleasure
in the tall sweet grass.

At any moment
he will sit up, alert,
ears sharp,
sniffing the air,
eyes intent on something
we can’t see
off under the trees.

His world is perfect now,
though I know he misses
the pats, the belly rubs,
the love in our voices:
lie down.
stay now.
good boy. mjh

7/7/2004

I wrote this five years before Lucky Dog died, remembering a beautiful spot the three of us discovered. And, imagining the inevitable, I sobbed. This supports my hope that “any horror could be faced / and become a poem.”

I borrowed the title from a poem by James Dickey. If you’re looking for that one, here’s a link. And, here’s a poem I wrote soon after Dickey’s death in 1997.

Listen to The Heaven of Animals

My Virtual Chapbook (table of contents)

Meeting myself again

I ran into myself in the park again this morning. Last time, Future Mark got out of a car and shuffled over to a bench. There he sat, smoking a cigar, in contemplation. It was a fatter cigar than I currently like, but tastes change over the years. I intuited that this was a ritual for him/me to get away from some less-than-ideal living situation. Perhaps, Future Mark lives in a small apartment or shares space with a friend. More likely, he lives in a warehouse for the not-yet-dead. In the park, with a good smoke, he reclaims our independence, however briefly.

Back then, I avoided contact with Future Mark out of fear of some time paradox. Since then, apparently, I will learn that’s not a problem, because this morning Future Mark approached me, or, more correctly, Luke. Mark held out his hand for Luke to sniff. Luke looked back and forth between us and managed to reconcile the situation; dogs live in the now. Mark looked me in the eye as if delivering a message just for me: "Our dog lived to be 16." (Good news that has a bitter end.) "I can’t imagine ever replacing him." I tried to comfort him what little I could: "We felt that way about Lucky. Then, when the time was right, Luke came along." Cold comfort, to replace grief with delayed grief, but we have only one other choice: love nothing. Besides, the warehouse probably forbids pets.

A few minutes later, I saw Future Mark bend over stiffly to brush some leaves off a memorial plaque beneath a tree. Then, he passed us, staring straight ahead, his face at once rigid and fluid with grief. I knew his pain. I didn’t dare look at the name on that plaque.

Grief is the Price of Love

Lucky Dog died two years ago today, at 2:10pm. We miss him still, of course. I think we always will. He was a gift from the Universe and was with us during the very best times over 10 years.

It was a bad year for dogs close to home: Shy (Joe), Gracie (Earl & Marcia), and Kaboom (Paul) – all within a few blocks of here, all friends of Lucky. Survivors know that the end of our loved ones’ suffering is most important and outweighs our own pain in grief. Lucky suffered longer than, and more than, he should have, but we needed to be together as long as we could.

The Heaven of Animals

The meadow is his home now.
Up high in the mountains,
he lies in the shade
in a circle of trees
among the wild iris.

He yawns and stretches,
flips over
and rolls and rolls,
groaning in pleasure
in the tall sweet grass.

At any moment
he will sit up, alert,
ears sharp,
sniffing the air,
eyes intent on something
we can’t see
off under the trees.

His world is perfect now,
though I know he misses
the pats, the belly rubs,
the love in our voices:
lie down.
stay now.
good boy. mjh

7/7/2004

I wrote this five years before Lucky Dog died, remembering a beautiful spot the three of us discovered. And, imagining the inevitable, I sobbed. This supports my hope that “any horror could be faced / and become a poem.”

mjh’s blog — Lucky Dog (8/11/09)

Death is the end

I’m an atheist. Among my friends, this isn’t controversial, even though most of them are not atheists. At one time, to be educated and a decent person, one was required to allow others to disagree and, as importantly, to consider that one could be wrong. These days, that attitude is considered weak: doubt is a despicable character flaw to many. Not so among my friends.

That said, I believe there is no god. I’m as certain as I can be.

Recently, I startled some friends with a different, but consistent, belief: there is no immortal soul. Death is the end of the individual. I am as certain as I can be.

The response from several people was “but you don’t (or “can’t”) know that.” While that is true, it doesn’t change my certainty. When I die, the atoms that make me physical will migrate. The energy that animates me will dissipate. That which makes me Mark Hinton will vanish. Yes, that makes me sad and angry. While that is true, it doesn’t change my certainty.

For the real me to survive death, my appreciation of irony must survive, as well. If we find ourselves together in the Hereafter, feel free to laugh at me. If you precede me in death, please haunt me. I’ll do the same for you. If it turns out I’m wrong, I owe you a Coke.

Not surprisingly, there’s not a lot of support for the view that there is nothing after death: it’s a serious downer. Absolute death runs counter to well-established traditions, even otherwise intellectual ones. If I were trying to win an argument, I might point out that many who believe in god or something after death do not value life as much as I do. But I’m not arguing, and I’m trying hard not to mock. Believe what you will. You can’t know for certain. There is no knowing – or anything else – after death. I’m as certain as I can be. Love life while you can.