Nightstands, lamps and books,
and we two stretched out on the bed,
we were both staring at separate
corners of the ceiling thinking
about something else, I suddenly noticed,
radiator of January clanking.
Then suddenly
we started talking
about David Bowie.
I don’t remember who
started it, but we were soon
wondering out loud about
health problems, genius and conflict,
how you need love and hate for creation –
like the man in the lobby
of the transient hotel
on Grand Street, LOVE and HATE tattooed
across the knuckles
of both hands, just like the guy
in the movie.
The very next day, we heard through
the systems that Bowie, the person,
was now gone
from this world.
Except for everything he left
back here.
We, Sophia and I, ah, we
were still together
then. And sometimes I called her
Mary
Magdalene.
It was before
our relationship
got too sick
of its own intensity,
and died.
Suddenly, like him.
No goodbye.
People always say
they don’t see ghosts
but I see ghosts
all the time.
Saragun Springs 
“But I see ghosts all the time” is as strong a close a poem can hope for. And being able to do so separates a person from the dreamless sociopaths.
This made me realize that Bowie will celebrate his tenth year in ghost-hood next month. Already. Of course he belongs to forever and hasn’t faded a bit.
Leila
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Leila
Yes, people forget that the word GHOST comes from Old English GAST, meaning “soul, spirit, residue” (from the Germanic).
“Memory” doesn’t quite do it justice and “angel” is too highfalutin (though maybe closer than we know, as in “guardian”). (And “demonic” is another realm altogether.)
Maybe we can ask The Judge, or the Oraclespectors – or the Footfallfollowers!
The EXIT sign is always over our shoulders – both in the sense of Hamlet and Yorick’s skull, and in the sense of potential escape while remaining very much alive in the literal sense. (And sometimes we need to escape from the ones who will go on haunting us anyway.)
Thank you, Leila!
Dale
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Bowie (like Jim Morrison & Dylan) one of the best-read of rock stars & here somehow given grace. Agree too with Leila – those last two lines are wonderful. Also his being gone “Except for everything he left / back here.” As with so many of your poems, Drifter, it’s all the more affecting for being understated.
Geraint
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Thank you, Geraint.
There was a version of this five times as long which kept disappearing, then reappearing at odd intervals, over the course of at least seven years, until it finally reduced itself down to the current version. And the longer version was probably somewhat sentimental, as this is a topic that lends itself to such in the wrong moods.
Ah Bowie, he was so much more than simply a “rock star.” Names like Rimbaud, Picasso, and Beckett are not out of place when one thinks of Bowie. Bowie even looked like Beckett (even though he didn’t look like him).
Thanks again as always…
Dale
PS
I refer readers to your recent Literally piece “The Shakespeareance of a Lifetime (Or Two)” for a brilliant new take on The Bard…
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Hi Dale
I like how your two charters were staring at two different spots on the ceiling. Great image! In worlds of thought or maybe the same? Many things under the surface. A lot delivered in an economy of words.
Bowie died, but you still had her. A gratitude. You had everything Bowie, but you don’t have life–like us. You don’t have each other like we do. You can’t add a single cubit.
I think one aspect of this poem shows how people study their lives when a famous person passes. The machine pauses.
The relationship died, “but I see ghosts
all the time,” great ending!
CJA
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PS Characters not charters lol.
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CJA
Seems to me the good poet needs to know the reason for every word AND not know why they’re writing, quite. If the poet knows why they’re writing (too much), and doesn’t know the reasons for words, the result = bad poem. And I’ve written a million of ’em all of them so far behind me I don’t even remember (sort of) any more.
I learned from William Carlos Williams (“The Red Wheel Barrow” and others) that often poems NEED to be slow and awkward, not mellifluous and flowing like honey.
Some poems are more like mumbling (or whispering) what the poet thinks are the deepest truths (at that moment. There also has to be a sense that the poet might change his mind (if it’s a him) at any time. NO PROPAGANDA).
Stayed tuned for another one tomorrow that I call “the Three Ds,” drug vision, dream, and description of the afterlife, all combined. If it fails I subscribe to Beckett’s saying, “Fail again. Fail better.”
Thanks for your great readings and interpretations!!!
DWB
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Excellent poem, Dale. I love how you intertwined Bowie and the relationship.
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Thank you, David.
Bowie will forever remind me of the stage actress and theater professor I was with when we heard the singer had passed on after talking about him alone the night before while believing he was still alive. A very true story. I used to try to write fiction and at some point I realized I’m much better at writing directly from life than I am at trying to make stuff up unless the stuff I’m making up involves my whereabouts for people who I don’t want to find me any more, etc…
Dale
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….Hence the EXIT sign in the photo (among other reasons)….
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