The older I get the more I think about death. Certainly more than I did 10 years ago. Recently I have found my mind drifting to the unbearable suffering that will almost inevitably occur before death.
I suspect that is why this new poem by Minifreda Grovetski resonated so deeply with me.
Written for her dying father-in-law, but really about an entire generation of men fading away in hospital beds everywhere, confused, lost & robbed of their dignity at the end of their lives. A fate that I am personally terrified of, and one I do not wish to face.
But “When The Big Men Die” is also a love poem, not for one man but a male archetype, one that could keep her warm, comfortable and safe.
The background images were filmed in the Kent countryside during lockdown and from my hospital bed in Kings College Hospital London in October.
Contact Fenella Fudge HERE
Minifreda Grovetski is attending a metaphorical party and is currently unavailable.
HOW THE BIG MEN DIE
Poem by Minifreda Grovetski
Performed by Yellow Note ft Fenella Fudge
They used to die on building sites, up scaffolding, of heart attacks, vital til the last.
Behind the bars of pubs, the counters of hardware stores, the wheels of lorries and tractors.
Big voices, big wits, big drinkers, big singers, big hearts, big men.
If they did not die suddenly, they would not know their illness long.
Sent home with the same damn pill for everything, they were gone before their bigness left them.
The smaller men obey the rules and are never rowdy.
They do as the doctor orders, uncomplaining at the prodding and the endless observations.
The catheters, the sick bowls, the hospital gowns that don’t hide the backsides.
The smaller men do not sneak whisky into the hospital or flirt with the nurses. Are meek at losing the legs and lungs to dance.
My father in law was not one of these smaller men.
He could wield barbecue tools while holding a glass of red wine and a baby, for goodness sake.
On the ward, I barely recognised him.
Pulled from his shell by a pin of pain.
Pallid pink and greenish grey, he squirmed occasionally under the striplighting.
Breathing like a fish and barely any flesh for needles.
Bumpy sternum, ribs of a rowing boat, shiny shins and all of it splashed with purple.
As though he'd been too vigorous out blackberry picking.
Holding grandchildren high as he braved the brambles so they would get the berries no one else could reach.
Now he stared at the ceiling, gasping and bemused at the loss of his practicality.
The men I love are big men.
When they shout at the telly, no one else can hear the programme.
They get out of their cars to unpick traffic jams.
Are heavy in slippers and clever at gambling.
They eat fast, make fires and have confident hands.
Hands that know how to please.
Hands that finish the job.
And finish the job again.
And again.
These men keep me warm.
Their backs are broad and they snore when they sleep.
Theirs is the loudest laugh when the joke’s worth laughing at.
And if it’s not, they tell a funnier joke.
They belong anywhere that they choose to belong.
Please God let them die quick while they are still big.