Even the stars will cry tonight.
People who make you feel so good and alive and happy and grateful should just get a free ticket to the end of the ride…to old age and dotage and shiny happy moments in the sunset with the approaching midnight sky softly revealing the constellations to them–and only them–one star at a time. It’s not fair.
Today, Canada and the world is a darker place. Thank you for using your voice for good, Gord. You left the world a better place.
“By now he could be anywhere
And after all that training
And after all that training
Was something we could no longer contain”
A POEM I WROTE MAY 4, 2009 ABOUT GORD DOWNIE AND HIS POETS…
I Won’t Tell Ya What the Poets are Doin’
I won’t tell ya
what the poets are doin’,
Gordo, ‘cause I wouldn’t know
just how to articulate it
if I tried. Insurmountable little mountains,
they are, windows into the souls
and all that jazzy jazz.
I won’t tell ya
what words they’re usin’,
wouldn’t matter to you if I did.
I can tell ya, though, Gordo,
that they ain’t much into
talkin’ ‘bout they growlin’ daddies,
those sleepin’ bears be understood
in whispers, Gordo. Suffice it to say,
suffice it to say, they got the whole
entire universe
wrapped up in there in their little minds.
I won’t tell ya
what the poets aren’t sharin’,
Gordo, those hyperbolic minds
get twisted
up inside their own importance,
they shittin’ out the day’s new weather,
take it, Gordo baby, as you can.
don’t wanna tell ya
what the poets are doin’,
makin’ music
at the river Ganges
isn’t first and foremost on their minds.
I’ll slip this little note
in hyper, slip it up here out in hyperspace,
I’ll listen, Gordo, for your answer,
surfin’ somewhere out in the constellations,
I know you’ll get it when you fall back into
the sleep they tried to take
away last time you beckoned.
don’t let them shoot you down
in silence, Gordo, make your words
explode with hemispheric wonder,
and in return, Gordo, I won’t tell ya
what the poets’ been doin’.
what the poets are doin’,
Gordo, ‘cause I wouldn’t know
just how to articulate it
if I tried. Insurmountable little mountains,
they are, windows into the souls
and all that jazzy jazz.
I won’t tell ya
what words they’re usin’,
wouldn’t matter to you if I did.
I can tell ya, though, Gordo,
that they ain’t much into
talkin’ ‘bout they growlin’ daddies,
those sleepin’ bears be understood
in whispers, Gordo. Suffice it to say,
suffice it to say, they got the whole
entire universe
wrapped up in there in their little minds.
I won’t tell ya
what the poets aren’t sharin’,
Gordo, those hyperbolic minds
get twisted
up inside their own importance,
they shittin’ out the day’s new weather,
take it, Gordo baby, as you can.
don’t wanna tell ya
what the poets are doin’,
makin’ music
at the river Ganges
isn’t first and foremost on their minds.
I’ll slip this little note
in hyper, slip it up here out in hyperspace,
I’ll listen, Gordo, for your answer,
surfin’ somewhere out in the constellations,
I know you’ll get it when you fall back into
the sleep they tried to take
away last time you beckoned.
don’t let them shoot you down
in silence, Gordo, make your words
explode with hemispheric wonder,
and in return, Gordo, I won’t tell ya
what the poets’ been doin’.
KEVIN CRAIG 