Poetry by Peter Zelaskowski
Jan's death
What caused him to leave
his bed
the minute before he
died?
A last attempt to win
the fight
or a body chained to a
spirit in flight?
Or, wrenched from the
inevitable continuum
his instincts gathered
to rage,
in a fit of despairing
delirium,
against the dying of the
light.
During what dream did he
leave his bed?
During what dream did he
die?
As his binary system
switched to dead,
as his eyes burned with
helpless rage
and dear dear life from
his body was shed,
into what never-known
did his dream extend?
Jan's
funeral
The coffin lowered down,
dapper cask of varnished
brown,
disturbing beads of holy
water
that scurried off as if
by rota.
A scrum of heads bowed
in sorrow
in a bitter cold that
chilled to the marrow.
Thud, the coffin found
its place
as tears ran, but not
down my face.
I was remembering the
polished Co-op chapel,
how, above his rigid
Adam's apple,
beneath that still,
pallid sunken face,
he'd completely gone
without a trace.
Oh brother, eternally at
rest in your rugby kit,
with name misspelled
upon your lid,
having vacated this
corporeal bit,
tell me, what in hell
comes after it?
Afterwards, in his
honour, the pub.
What's that I hear
through the hubbub:
the unmistakable sound
of an Erdington win;
Jan at the bar, getting
them in.
