THURSDAY, MAY 7
The first poem, Manteca... is mine. Of course, the second is one of my favorites by William Carlos Williams. William's poem came to my mind as I sat through a funeral today for an old friend...

MANTECA, CALIFORNIA, AND OTHER SORROWS...

What’s in a name?
Funeral or memorial service?
The jovial preacher tried to convince
the family of the departed that they should celebrate...
to talk about all the good stuff he did...
big emphasis on the did, which spoiled the mood
considering nobody would be seeing the late Bill
any time soon, or, depending on who’s talking about it,
ever again; so celebrating seemed to be a suggestion
not quite appropriate for the time being... the widow’s
weeds, I think that’s the old-fashioned word for it,
just barely had the price tags removed, so however
many fish he had caught or how funny his stories had
been, the damned past tense of everything about him
got in the way of celebration... and then

the preacher had everybody recite together
John 3:16 before he launched into palaver
about how the invitation was given and if
the departed had accepted the invitation
he certainly was saved and already in heaven.

The preacher had brought the Baptist elephant into the room
that nobody could ignore but nobody would acknowledge.
The departed... a good husband, a fine father, a stellar citizen,
a teacher who was reported to have done everything right...
the teacher, who loved and was loved by his students...
the preacher suggested not so subtly he might not
have made the moves necessary to get his name
written in the Lamb’s Book of Life.
Bummer! So much for celebration.

Let’s agree on a couple of things,
Whether it’s called funeral or memorial service.
Grief is a good thing. Mourning is appropriate.
Weep. Save the laughter for later.


TRACT
by William Carlos Williams

I will teach you my townspeople
how to perform a funeral
for you have it over a troop
of artists—
unless one should scour the world—
you have the ground sense necessary.

See! the hearse leads.
I begin with a design for a hearse.
For Christ's sake not black—
nor white either — and not polished!
Let it be whethered—like a farm wagon—
with gilt wheels (this could be
applied fresh at small expense)
or no wheels at all:
a rough dray to drag over the ground.

Knock the glass out!
My God—glass, my townspeople!
For what purpose? Is it for the dead
to look out or for us to see
the flowers or the lack of them—
or what?
To keep the rain and snow from him?
He will have a heavier rain soon:
pebbles and dirt and what not.
Let there be no glass—
and no upholstery, phew!
and no little brass rollers
and small easy wheels on the bottom—
my townspeople, what are you thinking of?
A rough plain hearse then
with gilt wheels and no top at all.
On this the coffin lies
by its own weight.

No wreathes please—
especially no hot house flowers.
Some common memento is better,
something he prized and is known by:
his old clothes—a few books perhaps—
God knows what! You realize
how we are about these things
my townspeople—
something will be found—anything
even flowers if he had come to that.
So much for the hearse.

For heaven's sake though see to the driver!
Take off the silk hat! In fact
that's no place at all for him—
up there unceremoniously
dragging our friend out to his own dignity!
Bring him down—bring him down!
Low and inconspicuous! I'd not have him ride
on the wagon at all—damn him!—
the undertaker's understrapper!
Let him hold the reins
and walk at the side
and inconspicuously too!

Then briefly as to yourselves:
Walk behind—as they do in France,
seventh class, or if you ride
Hell take curtains! Go with some show
of inconvenience; sit openly—
to the weather as to grief.
Or do you think you can shut grief in?
What—from us? We who have perhaps
nothing to lose? Share with us
share with us—it will be money
in your pockets.
Go now
I think you are ready.