The Perfect Catastrophe of Gordon Edgar

Lawrence’s photographs tell the whole story, the whole

kit and cargo, the perfect catastrophe of Gordon Edgar.

He began off-center and obstinate to rise remarkable.

GE found a place to stand with the wildest of the bunch

when it was still every man for himself in the crossbeams,

a museum piece but always exited through the gift shop.

A penniless shoe-shine boy, ragged, unintended & slangy

eyed the clean ivory keys of an oak Victorian upright piano

took his salt on the side dreaming up graceful little verses

dogged to turn poverty into fat cap, cane & Cheshire cat.

He buffed & swiped the tops of expensive loafers for naught,

long-legged Richie Riches sneered over stark grey newsprint

lobbed dimes in the dust & sped away in sleek cabriolets.

It was cloud-splitting, things counted & then divided, the

rules of his young bones & gentle madness recorded neatly

in a mourning journal tucked tightly into his back pocket,

(some-day songs). On the inside cover he had scribbled:

quick to spill, slow to simmer, never falter, never wither

exclamation point, just one though, GE modest, composed.

He wrote ‘Your Stars, Algonquin’ in a rural hen-house, not a

bawdy house as often reported. It started out as an elegy

for someone named Iris, a tight fistful of exploding flowers

sunk into the soil too early & with slow despair, in a languid

tune, we find him digging up the bones of the wind-up girl;

he knew the perfect place for a fire was a paper-thin heart.

Book-besotted, rock ‘n’ rolled, someplace beyond Kingston

on earth as it is, GE scaled a concrete particular, bright & free.

The last time I saw him I gifted him a cleft vase of rosettes

his heavy black boot guarded the bottom step to his spotlight

his mood ship-shape & easy; with a glint in his eye, he said:

“Imagine a poem that starts with a Zippo Lighter & the Poet

stares at the sky craving a cheeseburger & a chocolate shake.

I’m full of doubts but have no regrets, & the truth is, life is simple:

first ecstasy, then illness & reverse eternal hitch-hiking your

way to the Eden Garden, ahhh the lilies of paradise do shine.”

Lawrence’s photographs tell the whole story, the whole

kit and caboodle, the perfect catastrophe of Gordon Edgar.

Some are ripped & faded, some are flimsy Polaroids, others

emotive stills of his start/stop motions, many of them candid.

Gordon Edgar, the perfect catastrophe, will leave us enthralled,

our lips parted in holy blues, searching for his invisible features

& at the exact same time, before being washed with light, he

will come looking for us to say good-bye, one bleary eye at a time.

**

I knew I needed to write something today. Mood dictates that for me. It’s been a long, rough week thus far, my fingers were itching and so I pecked. I had an idea budding for a few days and this, the result. It isn’t meant to eulogize anyone, nor is it meant to be mournful, rather the opposite. There are bits and pieces of secrecy woven in and those are the poems and meanings I love most, sneaking a little something that only I know. I may, at some point, play with this one more, fatten it up, amend, lengthen, shorten even if necessary. But, for today, it has been my exercise in exorcising my anxieties, fears and missings.

I am venturing out into the sun soon. Happy for it because there is the sweet face of a good friend waiting on me, or perhaps it’s more like the anticipation of seeing said face to ease my weariness. And then, if I’m lucky, there may also be another warm soul waiting with a hug for me. Fingers crossed.

In propinquity,

Nic