Tuesday, January 22, 2013

A Poem From Jack

This may be a new record for longest I've gone between posts, but I'll try a little harder. 

Last week we lost a relative after he spent some time battling cancer.  Jack McCarthy was my mother's cousin, although to me he seemed more like an uncle you just don't get to see that often, occasionally joining us for Thanksgiving or Christmas or some other random popping by.  What made him unique was that he was a poet.  He traveled the country reading at poetry slams, which I never knew existed before him, and was quite well known within the poetry community.  He's got a few books of his poetry out, but it really was something to watch him perform.  Boston people can truly appreciate his poem for Bill Buckner. 

When I learned of his passing, I remembered an email he sent me after my father died.  It included a poem that anyone might find quite comforting when facing the loss of a loved one.  I thought I might share the email and the poem he sent me.  The writing of mine he refers to is what I wrote about my father while he was still in the hospital and before he died, and the mention of my brother is in reference to his eulogy.

Jack McCarthy: May 23, 1939 - January 17, 2013


Dear Molly,

Thank you. Actually, Mark printed off a copy and I read it last night. It was beautifully written; all the love was between the lines, you never spilled over into sentimentality.

Funny: I know 20x as much about John today as I did 2 weeks ago. He never tooted his own horn, and I think he usually had to let the dog out a few minutes after I arrived. I mainly remember him as someone I didn’t want to collide with on the basketball court or the football field; it was like running into a wall. Strange to be saying even that; it must be 30 years since we played our last game.

I’m very glad I came. I never would have appreciated the unending line at the funeral parlor, the mob at the funeral. I would never have had an inkling of what a remarkable guy John was.

You have a real talent for writing. There’s not a lot of money in it, but there is a lot of satisfaction. And Johnny could be a writer/performer—but that won’t surprise anyone.

We have followed your Iron exploits from a distance. We’re all very proud of you—although it’s crystal clear that you didn’t get those talents from the McLaughlin side.

You have some hard days and nights ahead of you. Following is a poem that might bring you some consolation in the low moments. (Helen was Carol’s mother; I wrote this for her when she lost her significant other.)

I know that you can never doubt how much you have been loved.

Jack

The Spaces Between
            for Helen

It hurts
            when love dies.
When love is deep,
            it hurts deeply—
more deeply maybe than you thought
            anything would ever hurt
again.

But with time,
the spaces between the moments when it hurts
get longer,
the moments themselves become
            less devastating,
till eventually you come to associate them
            with a sad sweetness
that has as much in common
with love
as it does with grief.

I will not say
            Don’t grieve for me
do I look like Saint Francis?

But I wish you long
spaces in between,
and may you carry into them
all of that sweetness,
and only enough sadness to attest

the risk that’s being taken
by everyone who loves you.
Every time we love, we’re saying
            Let it ride,
and what’s on the table
            is the rent money.

And every time we stride again
out into the crisp desert night
our fists shoved deep into empty pockets
we know ourselves for losers.

But, Jesus,
what brave losers we are.
I wish you this too,
for the spaces in between,
this bravery.