on Christmas Eve.
He was a giant in the theatre; for me there was only Beckett who was better at pure theatre. But Pinter had more to offer.
We saw his 'No Man's Land' just a few weeks ago in London: stunning. Literally; that's what happened with his stuff, got you in the stomach.
As soon as his death was announced I looked back in my notebooks and remembered that I had written the following poem in his style:
You can come in,
you can come,
come in.
But just; you would be better,
leave the rest; I said,
leave the rest there;
behind you; not
here.
There's so much of it, so much
did you have to have that,
so much of that.
That is the trouble, it will be
the trouble, now and to come
what a stink it will
make.
Well, I'm sorry for you to be it;
the cause and the glory,
for ever, as long as ever
is never.
In the sense of this being never ending;
whether you come in or stayed
outside you, and all that
in pertuity.
But I had to make you understand
the impact, the impression, the being
of being. It is important.
So see it. It.
And if you do, as I'm sure you will,
then it will be better than
left outside, like
baggage.
I'll punch you in the gut, with this
only ever with this, ink stick
the power of the gob spit,
fucks more.
Bless you dear friend, so fragile, scream
child, among the sores and blisters
come through, blessed and
stronger.
This is for you, and only ever after.
He's gone now, but no never;
always, ever, with you
every breathing, living
moment.
Of you, and me, a team, that sings
above the screams, scream not
it has gone, you are at peace,
that is the pace.
Sorted, baggage and all. Was that it, then?
Yes, that was it. Leaving it
all behind. But at the door.
If needed.
He will be missed.
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