Come Forth
For Paul Walter 1952-1975. Paul was stabbed in the back by thugs trying to steal his wallet. He was riding the New York subway home on February 18, 1975, after attending a meeting at Manhattan College on world hunger.
Written circa 1975-1977 and revised 4 September 2022
Louis Vincent Balbi
“Paul…wake,”
“Wake,”
“WAKE UP!”
What sort of a wake is this
if you refuse to awake?
Oh, my quiet friend, walk
away from this cold place.
Please, I feel so chill; so old.
But I’m only nineteen and you
are just a few years my senior.
Don’t you hear me?
Are you listening?
One would think
you were dead
and forever gone
by the way you ignore
my offer of company
and conversation
this February morning.
This day eternally held frozen
in my heart’s tortured chambers
amidst shattered memories:
harsh sun and sharp breeze;
bone-rattle of the leaves;
warble of winged beauties —
all seem to mock mourning.
The stupid birds make me imagine
Peter Max butterflies on your closed eyes and lips,
somehow thinking you would have liked that,
but even they don’t disturb your repose.
A stepped-on butterfly may change the future,
the flap of their wings might cause a storm,
but their hair-thin ballerina legs and wispy weight
are of no consequence: angels on the head of a pin.
“Oh come on, lazy, get up!”
Don’t be a lazy Lazarus!
I command it. Rise!
No?
Oh well,
you always were quite
a bit contrary,
weren’t you, Paul?
Why, then live in me.
Wherever I am, follow alongside.
When others meet me,
Maybe they’ll know you, in part.
I’ll try to carry you with me,
share some of what I knew
of your soul with them.
For silence doesn’t fit you,
my chatty, dear, kind,
and caring friend.
Interesting conversations
and surprising questions
were your trademark.
But they fade,
oh damn it, Paul,
how they fade.
Others will never hear
your soft voice,
your warm words
or your gentle chuckle.
But I shall be your echo.
I swear, I swear, I swear…