Grendel's Mother

If anxiety is Grendel,
death is Grendel’s mother
the great anxiety,
that shows the way…
Suppose you had no TV, radio or magazines
to bring news of slaughters around the globe
or even of someone falling from a horse in the next county.

Explore nature, drink from creeks, imitate birds,
bleed or break a bone, things can get worse.

Like first love, sex, or kindergarten,
one becomes aware of death for the first time
only once.
It is a greater mystery than rainbows,
Than the color of the sky,
Than the Bermuda Triangle.
And the source of the life urge.

Wren, the architect of St. Paul’s Cathedral
and other great buildings of London
exhorted the city to destroy
much built prior to the fire of 1666.
He was never suspected to have burnt the city,
but he would help it start anew,
to do better.

Death and destruction lay all around
where he thought and worked.
He lived to be 91, not that longevity is the best test
but he survived the fire, the Great Plague
and the religious psychosis that pervaded the era
(leading to witch-hunting, crusades, inquisitions).
Wren said, “If you want to know my legacy, look around you.”

It is not a requirement of living to seek greatness
nobility or a lasting legacy.
Most who have achieved
have done so not out of ambition
but from the fear of death
choked into a love of life
to serve as a generator
of electricity to power deeds.

Existential individualism can leave you lonely
too dopamine-deprived to make good
on skills inherited, tricks learned.
You rush to the arms of lovers, to a community,
seek solace in the bottle
Still, the best chemical is the wedding of death to life.
Fritz Perls said:
“Lose your mind and come to your senses.”
Commune with ideas
And mix this interaction with the real.
When the notion of death comes to mind,
And links with your authentic person…
Then you can feel
Then you can live.