Life expectancy here is 73 men//77 women for Māori. For Pākehā it's 80/83.
To be the last of your era left would be a lonely honour. The holder of the stories and memories. The ones that are written and the secrets, word of mouth.
Iwi means tribe. Koiwi is human bone remains. We used to put the bones, coloured with red ochre, in caves. In astonishingly carved boxes.
I visited the First People's exhibition yesterday, from Australia. Some of their people's bones were also coloured with ochre, placed inside beautiful painted trees that had been hollowed by termites. I love this reverence for skeletal essence.
Approaching death might be easier, knowing that your bones were held.
I don't know why but after reading your comment I keep seeing bone remains in my mind as musical instruments. I wonder how often that has occurred in a society? Music matters a great deal to me. For me it would be an honor. But then, I imagine some virtuoso getting ahold of my bone instrument rather than a kid who uses it to bang on a trash can!
Māori made flutes out of either the radius or ulna.
There's a famous one made from the arm of a tohunga- a potent person like a shaman. He stuffed up the incantations for a newborn baby of a chief so he was killed.
I'm not surprised the Tibetans would do that. And the Maori have connections that are a testament to their interior depths. I guess I see them as so ancient, they've had time to explore many things. But that's just my imaginings. I know very little about them.
For most Americans, I think, the idea of making a musical instrument from someone's bones would be so disrespectful. But, I think it is reverential. Music is one of the only ways we feel spirit, that we are transported to a different realm, that we experientially feel truth. I so much wish I would have learned to read and write music.
Being the last to die or just dying whenever doesn't trouble me half as much as knowing that someone died without reaching for honey and finding it pure, uncontaminated and sweet. DAMN.
Thank you for having the courage to write about the pain in life.
I had not though about where to die in the order of things recently. I had always though I would die young as my father died unexpectedly at 29. Once I surpassed that age I felt like I might live to a ripe old age and I was comfortable seeing everyone else off, having no fear of death or the dying process (which I find sacred). Now that I am middle-aged however, I have begun to wonder if I might be surprised? Will my body have a freak failure? Will I be hit by a bus? I feel more unsettled now than before. I hope it's only a phase. I don't like the discomfort.
I just attended my fathers 100th birthday party in Montana. He lives in his own home and we gathered from far and wide- He went to school in Spokane and the reunions are no more- friends are gone along with the fishing- but all the kids and grandkids and niece and nephews expressed their love and appreciation of a loving family. Hopefully you also will be a grandfather and perhaps great grandfather like my Dad - giving you love and are happy you are still here to tell more stories.
" I worry that I’ll be the Indian who lives long enough to bury all the Indians he loves." Touched my nerve, then yanked on it, then paper-sprayed it. Guess we all have the same fear!
This gutted me. I'm on the top edge of middle. Both parents gone, husbands' parents gone along with a couple of his siblings. My brother is battling stage 4 cancer with a grace that I didn't know he had. A former work colleague (10 years younger than I) lost her battle with cancer yesterday. Sickness and death are coming faster and faster.
Hi Sherman, wow good poem. I developed a fear a few years ago. It seemed at the age of 60 every guy I had in some loved was dead. When I say loved, I mean in a romantic or almost romantic way. The ones who were just friends were still around. So I imagined an observer would know if I had loved someone and they loved me back by whether they were still alive. Oh boy. What a legacy. It gave me a powerful complex. When I'd meet some guy I liked, I started thinking, "No! I don't want him to die!" I know you're thinking, "But as you get older it is going to happen, because the guys you 'like' are older, too." But the last one was around 34 years old. He died in a motorcycle accident. The last time I saw him was the first time he had said "Love you!" as we parted in a parking lot full of people. And as I drove away feeling sort of happy with myself, I knew he meant it for real. Because saying those words was hard for him. When I learned he had died, I felt such a sad, sick feeling in my stomach, because I wasn't sure if I had said "I love you, too!" back to him.
Then there's Mike Starr. He shouldn't be dead. He was too talented, too sweet. Or the man who was an Apache from my tribe. He took care of me when I got broken. He didn't deserve to die. I began to worry I was a jinx, a jonah. I haven't been as close to someone since the guy in the motorcycle accident. I guess I die alone.
I just subscribed to "Oldster magazine" on Substack. I thought maybe seeing how other aging people deal with death would help me deal with this. And it is quite good. But death keeps watching me from behind the pages. I guess it's unavoidable at our age. And now here it is again in a Sherman poem.
Trying to not think about those things you write beautiful poetry about! I guess if we're the last passenger in the bus station, just turn off the lights! (fry bread is on my bucket list!)
When I was considerably younger, I told my beloved Auntie Skeeze that I'd quit having birthdays. She informed me of my error: She who has the most birthdays, lives longest! She collected 94 before she gave it up. I've collected 80, and still counting. What she didn't tell me is that she who lives longest, says the most goodbyes. You are strong, Sherman. Live long enough to be sure each of your buddies has the send-off they should have.
I'm in the middle now. Twenty-five years ago my father died at the age of 67. I'm turning 67 in September. I realize I will be burying my parents' generation. I don't want to bury too many of my friends, or God forbid, my children.
Your poem touches me today---I've seen how growing old enough to outlive all your friends is miserable---I watched my mom as she continued on through the years, as she outlived all her best friends, her sister. After my dad died there was always a place she'd rather be: "Just shoot me so I can be in the grave with Daddy" she'd say, often.
I don't know how I feel about it. I run away from it all---always a dreamer, living in the realm of imagining forever.
Give me honey with everything inside!
Oh I loved your poem, because maybe I know what you mean---maybe being the last one standing is too lonely, just too much sorrow to hold...
I'm watching a baseball game and, in sports, there is no lonelier person that the pitcher after he gives up a big hit. Maybe we all end up being lonely pitchers in the last inning.
Life expectancy here is 73 men//77 women for Māori. For Pākehā it's 80/83.
To be the last of your era left would be a lonely honour. The holder of the stories and memories. The ones that are written and the secrets, word of mouth.
Iwi means tribe. Koiwi is human bone remains. We used to put the bones, coloured with red ochre, in caves. In astonishingly carved boxes.
I visited the First People's exhibition yesterday, from Australia. Some of their people's bones were also coloured with ochre, placed inside beautiful painted trees that had been hollowed by termites. I love this reverence for skeletal essence.
Approaching death might be easier, knowing that your bones were held.
I don't know why but after reading your comment I keep seeing bone remains in my mind as musical instruments. I wonder how often that has occurred in a society? Music matters a great deal to me. For me it would be an honor. But then, I imagine some virtuoso getting ahold of my bone instrument rather than a kid who uses it to bang on a trash can!
There are Tibetan femur trumpets, quite ornate.
Māori made flutes out of either the radius or ulna.
There's a famous one made from the arm of a tohunga- a potent person like a shaman. He stuffed up the incantations for a newborn baby of a chief so he was killed.
I'm not surprised the Tibetans would do that. And the Maori have connections that are a testament to their interior depths. I guess I see them as so ancient, they've had time to explore many things. But that's just my imaginings. I know very little about them.
For most Americans, I think, the idea of making a musical instrument from someone's bones would be so disrespectful. But, I think it is reverential. Music is one of the only ways we feel spirit, that we are transported to a different realm, that we experientially feel truth. I so much wish I would have learned to read and write music.
Being the last to die or just dying whenever doesn't trouble me half as much as knowing that someone died without reaching for honey and finding it pure, uncontaminated and sweet. DAMN.
Thank you for having the courage to write about the pain in life.
Thank you, Kate. And honey is sorta immortal.
Thanks for the enlightenment—honey is "sorta immortal".
I had not though about where to die in the order of things recently. I had always though I would die young as my father died unexpectedly at 29. Once I surpassed that age I felt like I might live to a ripe old age and I was comfortable seeing everyone else off, having no fear of death or the dying process (which I find sacred). Now that I am middle-aged however, I have begun to wonder if I might be surprised? Will my body have a freak failure? Will I be hit by a bus? I feel more unsettled now than before. I hope it's only a phase. I don't like the discomfort.
Covid certainly exacerbated that sense for me.
No, Sherman... You’re not allowed to die... We need you to keep writing poems for us forever… ✌️❤️
I'll do my best!
Yes! Please do...
I just attended my fathers 100th birthday party in Montana. He lives in his own home and we gathered from far and wide- He went to school in Spokane and the reunions are no more- friends are gone along with the fishing- but all the kids and grandkids and niece and nephews expressed their love and appreciation of a loving family. Hopefully you also will be a grandfather and perhaps great grandfather like my Dad - giving you love and are happy you are still here to tell more stories.
Understood. But please don't hurry!
" I worry that I’ll be the Indian who lives long enough to bury all the Indians he loves." Touched my nerve, then yanked on it, then paper-sprayed it. Guess we all have the same fear!
Yup
This gutted me. I'm on the top edge of middle. Both parents gone, husbands' parents gone along with a couple of his siblings. My brother is battling stage 4 cancer with a grace that I didn't know he had. A former work colleague (10 years younger than I) lost her battle with cancer yesterday. Sickness and death are coming faster and faster.
The losses get exponential.
Hi Sherman, wow good poem. I developed a fear a few years ago. It seemed at the age of 60 every guy I had in some loved was dead. When I say loved, I mean in a romantic or almost romantic way. The ones who were just friends were still around. So I imagined an observer would know if I had loved someone and they loved me back by whether they were still alive. Oh boy. What a legacy. It gave me a powerful complex. When I'd meet some guy I liked, I started thinking, "No! I don't want him to die!" I know you're thinking, "But as you get older it is going to happen, because the guys you 'like' are older, too." But the last one was around 34 years old. He died in a motorcycle accident. The last time I saw him was the first time he had said "Love you!" as we parted in a parking lot full of people. And as I drove away feeling sort of happy with myself, I knew he meant it for real. Because saying those words was hard for him. When I learned he had died, I felt such a sad, sick feeling in my stomach, because I wasn't sure if I had said "I love you, too!" back to him.
Then there's Mike Starr. He shouldn't be dead. He was too talented, too sweet. Or the man who was an Apache from my tribe. He took care of me when I got broken. He didn't deserve to die. I began to worry I was a jinx, a jonah. I haven't been as close to someone since the guy in the motorcycle accident. I guess I die alone.
I just subscribed to "Oldster magazine" on Substack. I thought maybe seeing how other aging people deal with death would help me deal with this. And it is quite good. But death keeps watching me from behind the pages. I guess it's unavoidable at our age. And now here it is again in a Sherman poem.
Beautiful and realistic.
Thank you.
Trying to not think about those things you write beautiful poetry about! I guess if we're the last passenger in the bus station, just turn off the lights! (fry bread is on my bucket list!)
When I was considerably younger, I told my beloved Auntie Skeeze that I'd quit having birthdays. She informed me of my error: She who has the most birthdays, lives longest! She collected 94 before she gave it up. I've collected 80, and still counting. What she didn't tell me is that she who lives longest, says the most goodbyes. You are strong, Sherman. Live long enough to be sure each of your buddies has the send-off they should have.
Thank you for wise and funny words.
I'm in the middle now. Twenty-five years ago my father died at the age of 67. I'm turning 67 in September. I realize I will be burying my parents' generation. I don't want to bury too many of my friends, or God forbid, my children.
Your poem touches me today---I've seen how growing old enough to outlive all your friends is miserable---I watched my mom as she continued on through the years, as she outlived all her best friends, her sister. After my dad died there was always a place she'd rather be: "Just shoot me so I can be in the grave with Daddy" she'd say, often.
I don't know how I feel about it. I run away from it all---always a dreamer, living in the realm of imagining forever.
Give me honey with everything inside!
Oh I loved your poem, because maybe I know what you mean---maybe being the last one standing is too lonely, just too much sorrow to hold...
I'm watching a baseball game and, in sports, there is no lonelier person that the pitcher after he gives up a big hit. Maybe we all end up being lonely pitchers in the last inning.
Beautifully said. And feel it. As a younger child of my generation know it.
Thank you.
Unfortunately, you might need to die last to tell the story of the others.
I worry most that I'll be the last sibling.