I must admit I never read any of Maya Angelou’s stuff before she died. That’s what it took. And it wasn’t that I sought it out. It was an article about her death, an article that quoted a poem of hers. It was the headline on Slate.com that caught my eye: Maya Angelou on What Happens When Great Souls Die. I couldn’t resist so I clicked the link, read the article, then the stanza.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
I was floored. I had those last lines in my head all day.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
It’s beautiful. And it’s true. Maybe it shouldn’t be so. Maybe all deaths should be equal. But they’re not. Every day, we see and hear of people who die. The news informs us, but if we don’t know the people, it washes over. It’s soon forgotten. We think, “That poor soul, but oh well. What can you do? It’s part of life.” And it is. But then along comes someone who maybe wrote a few words or played a few chords just so, and we’re shocked, appalled, drawn to tears when they die. It makes me think of something Bukowski once wrote referencing the death of Aldous Huxley. The language is different, but the sentiment is the same, a lament for the death great souls. (And you must forgive me because I know I’ve quoted this poem before)
anyway, 69 seemed
too early for Aldous
Huxley to
die.
but I guess it’s
just as fair
as the death of a
scrubwoman
at the same
age.
it’s just that
with those who
help us
get on through,
then
all that light
dying, it works the
gut a bit —
scrubwomen, cab drivers,
cops, nurses, bank
robbers, priests,
fishermen, fry cooks,
jockeys and the
like
be
damned.
Angelou and Bukowski did their own things very differently, but they both wound up making my life more bearable. I’ve read a lot of Bukowski and his words gave me strength in moments, strength I would not otherwise have had. And now, after reading that bit from Angelou, it is the same, and it makes me wonder about my own words, my own writing, my own death. And hers. Her writing that is. I don’t know why the caged bird sings, but I think it’s time to find out.
So here’s to you, Maya, and to you, Charles. From what I know, you two never met during this life, but I hope you’re having a drink together now in whatever there is of the afterlife and maybe talking about what it meant to get a few good words down. I hope to raise a glass there with you someday, but until then, I’ll raise my own quiet glass to both of you and offer a toast with the words I just read in the hope that someday someone somewhere might use my own words to do about me.
For they existed.