Things change over the years. We grow up and away from childhood and any abuse endured therein. If we’re lucky, we one day come to realize that we now live in a different timeline, one where those traumas are but dreamlike memories only half recalled.
timelines
I met Del Warren Livingston early in the Fall of 2003 online at a poetry forum called Poem Kingdom. He was one of the first people I met and talked with online who took me seriously as a poet, and he treated me like a scholar.
Del passed away suddenly in September of 2005. After more than two years building a friendship, which is something I rarely do, this was a loss deeply felt. He really liked the hybridanelle form I invented, and he wrote several poems using this form himself. Most of them were very well done, and a couple may be found on his memorial page linked to below. So it only makes sense that I write and dedicate a hybridanelle poem—my 14th—to his memory.
On a Life Left Unfinished
in memory of Del Warren Livingston (1944—2005)
A full life’s never ended; it merely passes on
new inspirations wrought from memories
like stardust filaments that weave the birth of suns.
Your time had come to shed the mortal dream;
although you wake beyond our veil as if from heavy slumber,
your remnants ripple through our half-lit realm.
And if you find yourself reflecting where you’ve gone
on all you’ve left undone, well just remember:
a full life’s never ended—it merely passes on.
We who float within your wake can hardly help but wonder;
we guess and grope for answers to our loss
although you wake beyond our veil as if from heavy slumber.
Despair would not become you despite your waning moons;
you strove instead to leave creative memoirs
like stardust filaments that weave the birth of suns.
The mystery conceals you like a shroud;
now left with only memories of all you planned to do,
we guess and grope for answers to our loss.
You chanced that every evening would reproduce the dawn;
unfinished projects bear the keen reminder:
a full life’s never ended; it merely passes on
a sense of oak leaves newly formed and foals of chestnut hue
to those who valued more than just your presence,
now left with only memories of all you planned to do.
The minds you’ve touched remain to bear the human trance,
yet still your essence drifts in memory
like stardust filaments that weave the birth of suns.
Your intuitions leave prospective imprints
and phase from tangibility as cloudscapes phase from view
to those who valued more than just your presence.
So long as breath sustains, your friends shall hold within
the insights you have offered as mementos;
a full life’s never ended; it merely passes on
like stardust filaments that weave the birth of suns.
The blood that fueled your living form returns to join our roots;
your time had come to shed the mortal dream
and phase from tangibility; as cloudscapes phase from view,
your remnants ripple through our half-lit realm.
I met Del about when I was starting to get a handle on expressing myself and my observations in fairly neutral, non-judgmental tones in poetry forums, and discussions in general. Not fully—not then, not now—but more so than before. When it came to discussing poems, poetry, and poetics in an online poetry forum, it has always been my goal to seek knowledge and understanding while at the same time freely sharing whatever I’ve learned up to that point. However, I’ve had to gain insight into my own ego and insecurities as part of this process, which hasn’t always gone smoothly. So I’ve ended up alienating a lot of people as I’ve struggled to learn how to communicate intelligently, openly, and unassumingly with others.
As luck would have it, Del wasn’t much bothered by my rough-edged, self-distancing gruffness, and he enjoyed batting ideas and information back and forth. I was also at this time finally becoming proficient in my understanding of verbal meter, so our early discussions included much talk of meter in poetry. As a result, he learned so much about this aspect of poetry, which had thus far eluded him, through our dialog that he eventually naturalized it himself.
Much of our dialog took place over his own poetry. He sought out my critiques of his poetry—And he didn’t want the light stuff. For the first time I was able to completely cut loose on analyzing and interpreting a living person’s poetry to shreds without worrying about hurt feelings. It was an educational treat for me, and he appreciated the time I spent critiquing his poetry so much that he actually sent me a check at one point for around $200, which he called “compensation”. Up until his death he also took the time to provide me with detailed thoughts and interpretations on every new poem I wrote.
I am by nature asocial and emotionally distant to people, so it took him some effort to cultivate and sustain a friendship with me. But he did so, and as a result I took an increasing interest in him over time, getting to learn a lot about him as a person.
Part of the reason he was studying poetry himself is that he knew his time above ground was limited at best. Years ago he suffered from a metabolic accident that caused him to very quickly gain and retain a lot of weight. In fact, the accident screwed up his biology in general, and his heart weakened over time from the strain on his body.
He wanted to learn how to use the medium of poetry to tell stories about his life and his inspirations so he could leave something behind that would feel significant to him. In fact, Del self-published a book about a year ago titled Writing into the Sunset, which I have a copy of. He passed away literally one day before sending a second book to print. Hopefully his family will be able to get that book published for him, too, at some point.
I came to consider Del a good friend, enough so that I took the drive down to Tuscon, Arizona last spring to meet him. I spent a week at his house with him, mostly entertaining myself with my reading as I’m wont to do, but the rest of the time having very long conversations with him. I’m glad I went; because if I waited, I wouldn’t have gotten to meet him in person at all. He was a wonderful host who made me feel completely welcome in his home.
One of his friends, Eric Lee, has arranged to have this memorial page setup for him online, which includes a short bio of his life and some of his poems. I hope you will feel moved to go have a look.
The ephemerality of life and self has been a subject of personal reflection for as long as I can remember. This has given rise to the occasional abstract poem, such as this one.
Dis-integration
