Evidences indicated that Steve Mackin might be present at the Poetry Hotel yesterday. There were periodic knockings that sounded like someone was at the door but when we opened it, in rushed a draft of cold air. Of course, each time we faced the unseen, we said, “C’mon in!”
And when I am dead
Let the dirges be sung
To the turban mad twirl
Of the dervish and Hun
On the field of twilight
As the moon mugs the sun
Bill Mercer opened the reading with Dylan Thomas’ In My Craft of Sullen Art, a poem Steve liked to recite when he attended a reading for the first time, or just for the love of it. One of Steve’s poems was read too. Imagine him growling and cursing if no one bothered to read his poems at his memorial Salon!
And when I am dead
I will leave not a mark
Except for these poems
That I carved on the heart
Of the veil of the night
As Venus fucks Mars
Steve’s friends came and went all day, picking from the thirty-four boxes of Steve’s books that his family gave away. The portrait of James Joyce (painted by Chris Trian and commissioned by Steve) looked on as we performed this intimate activity: going through one’s library that took years to build.
And when I am dead
Why then build me a pyre
Of my books and my poems
Consign me to fire
Oh sing then rude cantos
of the ruin of desire
We didn’t burn any books. If Steve’s poem was his last will, we certainly did not executive it properly. But no matter how fiercely the wind protested outside, Steve would have loved seeing his books taken up by appreciative hands. We all had a part of you now, Steve.
Photo by Vern Peralta.
When I Am Dead, by Steve Mackin.
