I apologise, but who is this bourdain?
(mind you, I do not watch television since the age of 18, I suggest not to
presume any awareness tv culture or cultures)
palma, apgs
On Tue, Jun 12, 2018 at 12:20 PM, Paul Stone <pastone@xxxxxxxxx> wrote:
Lovely poem, but I'm afraid you give him way too much credit.
P
On Tue, Jun 12, 2018, 4:12 PM Lionpainter, <lionpainter@xxxxxxxxx> wrote:
To the Fallen. This poem rushed out of me today. For Anthony Bourdain.
Really no one to share it with...so maybe here.
Tony - For love of Bourdain
Strong jawed, experiential mercenary;
He stumbled through jungles of mind and mankind,
And tossed his journals to small few that watched,
At first.
Different, adventurous, pulling
The straight line of the 180 into a circle
Connected.
He shared odd musings in dark cafes
And whispers of passion in
Dim corners East and West.
He did what we would never do,
Always.
I loved his shoes.
He knew what
Worked and chose them well,
And shirts and clothes entire.
Men wanted to be like him,
Women wanted him.
I knew it when I met him, and fought
Hard to avoid the desire
To tame and protect such a one.
Moving safely in the wings
Watching as some audience
While he pushed and bumped his way
To the top, fearlessly.
He did what we would never do, always.
Drawn weak to passion, fearless in wanton
Telluric force, carnal and banal
With a lava mind that could weave
Its ideas across our human landscape,
Evoking something reminiscent and familiar
from our buried pasts, our RNA, like smoke.
They filmed his burning and scorching civility
Leaving most in his path defenseless.
Ideas seeming revolutionary to the ordinary mind
Yes buried deep in the human psyche
And they couldn’t resist the view.
I had escaped, he knew, and sadly shrugged.
Danger held little awe for me, no draw.
My choice was to heal, not disrupt.
But we all still adored him from a distance.
A cowardly cautious distant.
He released his primitive, bloody path,
Eating and dropping drugs
Like assorted candies, just
For the flavor or feel. She joined him but
Hated the Watchers, the lenses...
And finally abandoned him to his race.
I wish I had been able
To stop him, awaken him, shield him,
Tame him from his inner creatures.
He raced to danger as though
His adrenaline never stopped
Thrashing against the walls of
His skin, reddened and heaving,
Resting only when dead drunk.
The news haunts me.
“Anthomy Bourdain dead at 61”.
He hung himself?
How could such a man
Hang himself? Set aflame at top speed
Raging down some highway maybe,
But a rope, ...in a room, ...alone?
Why had I not tried harder to help him,
And those others? Why had she?
He finally did what we would never do
Had he been like us.
He was from another time, another age.
Yet again, sadly he was exactly
From this time and age.
Days later I still feel helpless.
Exactly like that March day they so proudly
Bombed Bagdad on my television screen.
I had nothing to say then either...it was done.
What a sadly tragic foolish loss.
Just sad.
Sherrie -June 11, 2018
Wake Forest, NC -
http://www.siennamuseum.com
“Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher
storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.” —Rabindranath Tagore
*"When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to
everything else in the Universe**."* --John Muir
“Do What You Can, Where You Are, With What You Have.”- Teddy Roosevelt
"*The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are."*-Joseph Campbell
