Death of a poet

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We weren't that close to him. We first met him when we bought our first home in 1994. He had just retired from teaching at the community college and was living in a travel trailer in the backyard next to our backyard. He was a friendly sort and of course, being mutual bird lovers, he talked about collaborating a book with his poems and my pictures.

Years later, when we moved a few blocks away, he was our neighbor again as he shared the home he inherited with his sister across the street. He would spend his winters here and his summers in a trailer park in Santa Cruz.

We went to his memorial yesterday at the botanical gardens. Poems were read, and by the descriptions of birds and cottontails I could tell he was my neighbor. Nard's health began to deteriorate shortly after we met him. His friends joked that there wasn't a major illness he didn't have and his poems that were read bravely reflected his path and his ultimate destination. His poems reminded me of our friend anjelica.

Nard was quite the guy. One of his friends told us the story of how one day he told him that 'he wanted to be buried in an outhouse'. Sure enough, there was beautifully crafted miniature, cedar outhouse which was, as his sister explained it, one of his many final resting places.

LISTENING SO INTENTLY IN THE EARLY LIGHT AND SAYING SO LITTLE

Inside an open rose
A tree frog
no bigger
than my thumbnail.
I try to imagine
rest like that,
tucked
in such a bed of petals.
I try to imagine
prayer like that,
listening
so intently
in the early light
and
saying so little.

~ Bernardo Taiz

 

[tadoflamb]

It's been a week now. What a privilege it was to spend some time listening to poetry with a roomful of sensitive, and thoughtful people.

 

[tadoflamb]

I taught a little short 75 minute class on watercolor this morning as part of a 'Try It Out' day where I teach. One of the lovely ladies who was at the memorial and said some very nice things about Nard was in my class.

It's so interesting how things work out sometimes.