A poet cannot lie. Must tell the fact
that people go, in pain, and cannot stay.
Last month, last week, last hour of last day.
He took my hand. And my voice might have cracked

but his did not. A sort of madcap grace
he had. We used to think it was the drink.
He’d laugh, be serious, dance on the brink
of parapets. No mask behind his face.

He wrote, once, of a gentle alien spy
observing, liking. Someday going back.
That wasn’t him. He has no chance to pack
some souvenirs. He won’t leave, he will die.

Cheeks slightly gaunt, his shy sardonic smile
haunts, like his rich sad sweet rococo style.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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6 Responses to FOR IAIN

  1. kateelliott says:

    That’s beautiful. And right.

  2. gonzo21 says:

    Quite quite splendid.

    (And sorry about that, the phone just seemed to die?)

  3. bibliofile says:


    At least he’ll get to see this poem first.

  4. tamaranth says:

    That is a marvellous evocation of Iain, and made me a little weepy. Thank you!

  5. cakmpls says:

    A wonderful tribute.

    Maybe we should more often write/say such feelings, even if we haven’t your gift for words, when the person can still read/hear them.

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