You Weren’t Mad, Crevel

Folk, Harp, rap, solo young voice calm, ‑Opera, ‑bel canto, ‑agressive, ‑shouting, ‑theatrical, ‑solemn, ‑vibrato, ‑tremolo, ‑excessive

No, you weren’t mad, Crevel,
you should never have taken your life.
Even with your ruined kidneys at thirty-five,
your father had opened that door before you
when you were only five.

No, you weren’t mad, Crevel,
you were too awake for this world —
too sharp, too tender, too creative,
with those pale blue eyes
like the ones you once gave a ghost in your story:

“His eyes? Two fading stars,
two fireflies shut in a stable.
With scraps of heaven’s skin,
he tries to build a face again —
but the pieces don’t fit anymore.”

No, you weren’t mad, Crevel,
I wish I’d been alive in ’35,
wish I’d been your uncle,
bursting in, turning off the gas,
saying come live with us in Québec,
come, my boy, my wife and I will take you in,
we’ll fix your kidneys,
give you another sky to breathe.

You wrote of your father’s death —
how you saw him go,
and how that wound became your teacher.
You said truth was too big,
and lies too small to hold it,
that we mix them,
because we’re afraid to burn.

You said:

“There’s much greatness in a little truth.”

And you were right,
but that little truth never fed you.
It kept the lie alive,
it held your pain upright,
and you saw what others refused to see —
that no man can bear a pure lie,
nor live a half-truth.

You wrote:

“The eyes that haunt me
always had to be intelligent —
they haunted me like thoughts.”

And your own poem still glows:

Your gaze, river-colored,
flows with the day it drinks.
Morning robes you in angel light,
night leaves, love remains.
Our skins smell of warm bread,
our hearts beat under dawn’s white cloth.
I fear the day — too long, too bright —
your eyes may turn to lead at noon.
Yet in that evening made for twin triumphs,
the angels’ joy will shout,
and your river will become a Ganges divine.

No, you weren’t mad, Crevel,
you were just too lucid,
and no one near you saw it.

I’d have lifted you like we carried Nelligan,
on our shoulders one April night.
Maybe here, in Québec,
you’d have found a girl,
we’d have mended your body,
and I’d be the great-uncle
of your pale-eyed kids.

But no — no,
you weren’t mad, Crevel.
Just too alive
for a world half-asleep.

2133/7500

No, you weren’t mad, Crevel, you should never have taken your life. Even with your ruined kidneys at thirty-five, your father had opened that door before you when you were only five. No, you weren’t mad, Crevel, you were too awake for this world — too sharp, too tender, too creative, with those pale blue eyes like the ones you once gave a ghost in your story: “His eyes? Two fading stars, two fireflies shut in a stable. With scraps of heaven’s skin, he tries to build a face again — but the pieces don’t fit anymore.” No, you weren’t mad, Crevel, I wish I’d been alive in ’35, wish I’d been your uncle, bursting in, turning off the gas, saying come live with us in Québec, come, my boy, my wife and I will take you in, we’ll fix your kidneys, give you another sky to breathe. You wrote of your father’s death — how you saw him go, and how that wound became your teacher. You said truth was too big, and lies too small to hold it, that we mix them, because we’re afraid to burn. You said: “There’s much greatness in a little truth.” And you were right, but that little truth never fed you. It kept the lie alive, it held your pain upright, and you saw what others refused to see — that no man can bear a pure lie, nor live a half-truth. You wrote: “The eyes that haunt me always had to be intelligent — they haunted me like thoughts.” And your own poem still glows: Your gaze, river-colored, flows with the day it drinks. Morning robes you in angel light, night leaves, love remains. Our skins smell of warm bread, our hearts beat under dawn’s white cloth. I fear the day — too long, too bright — your eyes may turn to lead at noon. Yet in that evening made for twin triumphs, the angels’ joy will shout, and your river will become a Ganges divine. No, you weren’t mad, Crevel, you were just too lucid, and no one near you saw it. I’d have lifted you like we carried Nelligan, on our shoulders one April night. Maybe here, in Québec, you’d have found a girl, we’d have mended your body, and I’d be the great-uncle of your pale-eyed kids. But no — no, you weren’t mad, Crevel. Just too alive for a world half-asleep.

0/500