Move Pen Move by Shane Koyczan

Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LJF456qmnBI

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, 

Nor yet canst thou kill me.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; 

Why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more; 

Death, 

Thou shalt die.

Stay.

That's what mothers say when their sons and daughters go away

They say stay.

My mother said go.

So I wasn't there the night she fell out of her wheelchair, 

So frustrated that she amputated her own legs, 

Or rather tried to with a steak knife.

Her life leaking out on the white floor blossoming like roses in the snow.

Our relationship was an anthem composed of words like 

"Gotta go".

So we went.

And sent our regards on postcards from other places we'd been with stories about all the things we'd seen,

That's how it was with you and I; 

Why say good bye when we could still write?

But then it took your hands.

We should've practiced our goodbyes, because then it took your eyes. 

And I was somewhere, in the middle of nowhere, 

Watching the sun rise over a stop sign placed down the centre line of a highway 

Filled with sudden turns for the worse.

Running back home 'cause I gotta play nurse.

Gotta figure out which pill alleviates which pain, 

Which part of your brain is being used for a boxing bag 

As your body became a never ending game of freeze tag 

Taking place in an empty playground.

I was left looking for your limbs in a lost and found, 

And I couldn't set you free.

So we just sat there.

Our heads bent towards each other

Like flowers in the small hours of the morning, 

While light wandered in like a warning that time is passing 

And you right along with it,

Bit by bit every day.

And all I could say is, if I could, 

I would write you some way out of this,

But my gift is useless. 

And you said no.

Write me a poem to make me happy.

So I write.

Move pen move,

Write me a bedroom where cures make love to our cancers, 

But my mother just motions to a bottle full of answers and says, 

"Help me go".

And now I know something of how a piano must feel 

When it looks at the fireplace to see sheet music being used for kindling,

Smoke signalling the end of some song 

That I thought it would take too long to learn. 

Now I just sit here watching you burn away, 

All those notes I never had a chance to play, 

To hear the music of what you had to say.

I count out the pills just to see if I can do it.

I can't even get halfway through it before I turn back into your son and say

Stay.

I could hook up my heart to your ears, 

And let my tears be your morphine drip 

Because maybe it's easier to let you slip away than it is to say 

Goodbye.

So I hold my breath.

Because in the count down to death 

The question of "why" melts into "when".

How much time do we have left, 

Because if I knew what I know now then-

Move pen move,

Write me a mountain.

Because headstones are not big enough.

My mother says stop it,

Write me a poem to make me happy.

So I write this:

Stay.

She smiles and says, 

"Gotta go".

I know.

Goodbye.

-------------------

This poem became really meaningful to me when my own grandma was dying a few years ago. She had had a stroke in May and it took until April the next year for her to pass away. She was ninety-five years old and the only grandparent I ever got the chance to know. She was also the first major death in my family. In her final months, we knew she was dying and it was only a matter of time so every day I went to school thinking I'd get pulled out of class and given the news that she'd died. Between her and my own mental health issues, I was a wreck. It was an incredibly difficult time for my entire family.

I listened to this poem again on a whim and one part really hit me. To this day, the bit that gets me every time is this: 

"So I hold my breath

Because in the count down to death

The question of "why" melts into "when".

How much time do we have left,

Because if I knew what I know now then-

Move pen move,

Write me a mountain.

Because headstones are not big enough."

It really captured the distress I felt at not being able to know my grandmother as well as I wanted to and having to watch her slip away and also realizing her strength and everything she had done in her life.

Shane Koyczan really does have some beautiful poetry. To This Day, Troll, A Good Day, My Darling Sara, The Crickets Have Athritis, How to Be a Person, Instructions for a Bad Day, they're all incredibly meaningful and I love them to bits, but Move Pen Move will always hold that special place in my heart because it just reminds me so much of my grandma.

RIP Frances Allain (February 25, 1920-April 6, 2015)

I love you and miss you, Grandma. I hope there's plenty of curling and crosswords up in heaven for you <3