At the Grave of Glenn Gould
It's an ordinary place, for death is ordinary. The grass is cut, it's a tidy place. The trees, too far apart, cast no shadow on your name; nearby, a squirrel, a robin, and, at another grave, mourners who mourn a death the first time. Overhead, some Canada Geese make petulant sounds. The sun is unmerciful today, and so is death. The whole place seems to yawn as if, for reasons beyond reason, the dead are quite bored with us. Were you ever bored, alive? Did mastery make you weary? Did you ever dare tread where you might make mistakes? The naysayers said no, and so many made of water, fire, earth, and air asked too humbly of the stars what each day would be; no wonder you and the world went separate ways. Still, I look for something more on your grave. Was perfection too painful where no one might see your ecstasy? You wouldn't be part of the world unless you had your way; you sang perfect in much but not imperfection; you doubted where music gave over to dance and dance to madness, disorder. You marvelled at secrets, wanted no secrets, and you lived a secret life. You seemed too cautious to weep and defied emotion the best you could, as if the heart intended some clarity of brain. But each life remains unlived, unrealized; and as I leave, I make only footsteps, only a passing shadow. You died at fifty, and I, at forty-nine, like most of this world, have not been true to all that is true in me.  |
