Quinton

Q, you built a city inside my heart And now I�m trying to make it back. Do you remember what it looks like? What we did there? Where is it now? In this city there�s a lake that�s filled With fish & fountains powered by Your laughing soul - we�re creating Plans, our soundtrack experiments; Organized sports cannot be found in This brand new city, its living memory (I�m putting off returning to the plans, Although it�s getting crowded here). It�s easier to draw a lake, a fish or House, the view of a mountain hut; A native flower�s sleepy bloom or Night inside some inner city bar � Though words are never pictures They can contain this feeling�s arc. Something in them returns to you & makes me listen to your voice. I catch the subways every day & See in signs your famous designs: The freeways look like fret boards On that old guitar we used to play. In every city, every day, you walk & talk about the people living out Recycled dreams & even there we Hope for sunsets on tiny islands � Along these boulevards buskers Tumble, street sellers hawk their Frozen wares; your eyes cannot Fail to find one of life�s surprises, Your love of the eccentric & the Weird. The fake wig made of your Own hair, or our tentative beards. In this city everyone�s up for your Dares: we leap into pools as if the Edges are not there � as if once we Accepted that these waters make us Float there�d be no reason any more To take that chance - to throw our Spirits at the sun & catch them on Their gentle spirals. Through a screen I see the landscape as you always Intended it to be � alive & random, At once created & at the same time Free of human intentions; brave & Only slightly wounded, wise but only Partly grown-up. You�re walking so Fast along the city streets that I�m Breathless & can hardly keep up � Searching for the secret bargains, Plotting paths through the lunchtime Crowds, knowing this is your city & You have made it ours, the architect Of desires we barely knew existed In the traffic islands, the excitement Of hoardings & billboards pasted with Notices of what�s still to come until, At last, in your beautiful city, the one That�s powered by your still-beating Heart, I arrive at something like a Destination. I sit there thinking of Your urban stories & of telegraph Wires along which flow a multitude Of words & whispers (even silences Contain some truths). The radios are All tuned to stations whose chosen Styles have not yet even been named. On televisions in the discount stores They�re playing re-runs of Fantasy Island & Diff�rent Strokes yes & ALF ... Hear this, all you people afraid of going Out: there�s a party on at Q�s place. Don�t Be late; you wouldn�t want to miss the Main event: a fish tank filled with jelly Or the impossible cake & that special Dance, whose backing track you�re on The verge of recognizing, propelling us Into each others� lives, like it doesn�t end. It�s been set up on a loop & in the Streets you�ll hear it too although it�s After midnight and you�re drunk & you Left your coat somewhere in the park. Tomorrow morning someone will find You sitting in a coffee shop or a bar, Humming an irresistible tune thinking Of a new invention, sketching specifics On a napkin, waiting for us all to arrive So that in company & in jest or in love With your incredible talents, your arts, This city lives on in all of our hearts. Q, you built a city inside our hearts And now we�re trying to make it back. Do you remember what it looks like? What we did there? Where is it now?

Comments

dierijkd@optusnet.com.au said…
beatiful Dave, thanks for the cermonial version with Rachael, i think i cried through the whole thing, i can't stop tears breaking when I think of you and how close you and Q were, and how you must be feeling
He had a good farewell, hope you are ok.
love
D
David Prater said…
Dear Dierijk,

Thanks so much - I'm glad you like the poem. I just wish I could have been there to say goodbye to Quinton ... we sure will miss him!
Take care
Davey

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