to Paul Squires
December 16, 2010
a wave goodbye
paints a new horizon
In memory of Paul Squires, whose presence and comments graced this site with some regularity. Paul was a well regarded published poet and author of the acclaimed book The Puzzle Box. His fine work can be appreciated at his blog gingatao. Thank you Paul for your words and humanity.
Here are some wonderfully written tributes:
Paul Squires at Aletha Kuschan’s Weblog
Paul Squires and Proust at Words
Paul Squires, Poet Laureate Of The Universe at Absurdistry’s Weblog
Paul Squires: Some things are not ghosts at art predator.
Paul Squires: true original, gone… at Another Lost Shark
Paul performing his poetry:
Here is the poem, Listen:
Listen By Paul Squires
Listen. Not to me. On a cool, clear night like this the traffics are louder.
They hurrr by like bundles of compressed air whirlywinding someone
home. The old man next door has gone to bed. He coughs his awakeness
and will soon snore his dream.
This pen pushes black ink across a white page with a jumping, scratching
rhythm. The next three dots are not a device they are a drum roll…
This last full stop is a rimshot crack.
The oceans from which you come continue in your breath, hear soft lines
rhythm in and curl out. You are a continent composed of dreams, a land of
mystery and miracles and your heartbeat I hear as the voice of God
entrusting her creation to you. This is not a metaphor nor an allegory nor an
image. You are not a story you tell yourself. Your life is not an American
Movie. Star light is real and brings the heavens to you to kiss your eyes and in this cold night voices purr in the street as drunkards roll home and cats pursue the objectives of their owners and an old grey muzzle dog’s tail thumps once on a bare wooden floor.
The moon speaks to him in his voice and to you in the voice of your blood and the ocean though miles away moils in each of your cells, salt water in your tears, salt water in your blood coloured by passion and the breathing you hear is not your own, nor mine but the voice of a child a thousand miles away, born before his time and waiting. Waiting for your eternal embrace, your warmth to bring him home and his mother in the clouds of morning, in the ever present sunrise, you can hear her smile in birdsong and in the crackle of dry leaves under bare feet.
There is no other proof of your existence but this, the sounds that you hear always, every sound ever alive in the tremor of tiny bones hidden in your head. Imagine that, the slightest of vibrations creating all this clamour of life which never stops, is always warm and slow, fast and hot and though you may close your eyes you may never close your ears, not even in sleep wherein sounds will form the matter of your dreams.
And though you may close this book forever and never read another word, wordless the world will come to you and reveal itself to you and there is no other proof that you exist but this, you are beloved of the earth and the creatures around you, insects and stars are quietly harmonising with your breath and the rythm of the ocean enlivens us all, and the moons voice is eternal and God whispers lullabies in breezes, rain storms, traffic and there beside you now, the ever present child drawing warmth from the murmur of your heart as it marks the patterns of joy, the echoes of pain, the wheel which never ceases to turn and touching you rolls on, it hurrrs as it turns slowly fading into just you, you alone, surrounded by and singing with the voice of God.
Source of poem: gingatao
Here are some poems written for Paul:
The Force of Gravity
We didn’t realise the gravity of the situation
the impact of releasing a single word,
faintly at first but slowly
the breeze from the butterfly effect
turned into a cyclonic wind
planets in orbit of the sun
you were the sun
as we were the planets
there was a supernova
a stella explosion
what was before
and what remains,
that is life
The show must go on,
Now I know how Dorothy felt when the tornado picked her up in Kansas and whoooossshed her to the fantastical land of Oz to be with a bunch of witches, the scarecrow, tin man and cowardly lion. Now I know how a cork from a bottle of rum feels when thrown overboard by a pirate (concentrating on the melody of what shall we do with a drunken sailor while scratching his itchyaaarse and dancing with a mermaid of his fantasy), tossed up, down and sideways on the black, tumultuous seas, longing to be safely back in the dry ship cabin. I must be hallucinating, I’m sea-ing a pink snail floating on fairy floss or is it slithering along a shimmering martini, too many incantations to digest,
never mind that, I can see the washing machine waters beginning to settle, a little, and the sky tonight is red so another day will bring a sailor’s delight of calming seas, for sure
peppermint tea anyone …
he would have it no other way
the show must go on,
Note: Please feel free to submit any poems, essays, or recommendations for inclusion. The above tributes and poems are by no means the only ones. They are myriad. Paul seems to have spurned a cosmos of admirers.
Peace, Herb (email@example.com)