November 24, 2012 by hookershorde
November 24th, 2012 – A Splendid Bugger Says it Best (4:02 am)
“Perhaps you will forgive me if I turn from my own to those of another splendid bugger, W.H. Auden. This is actually what I want to say.” I first heard those lines in Four Weddings and A Funeral when it debuted in 1994, the year I married Dwight.
At Gareth’s funeral, Matthew, his partner, recites the poem. Together, we spent over 15 years. Even with a divorce decree from 2003, he is my friend, he is my conscience, he is . . .my love. “He is my noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.”
With the significant age difference between us, W. H. Auden’s Funeral Blues resonated when we watched the film in the Sundance Screening Room. The 42-years separating us expanded to include divorce, moves, and even, other marriages to other people.
I was told, by an old friend, “You still believe you’re married to Dwight. You were never married to _______________________. You didn’t love him. . . maybe, if Dwight is not a part of this world you will be able to let go and find happiness.”
But, I’m happy. I’m content. I’m content to talk to Dwight when the election results come in . . .to discuss HBO’s Newsroom, and reminisce about our turkey dinners.
To lose even that, is to lose everything.
To that end, I turn to the words of a splendid bugger to express the words I cannot find:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
(Oh, how Gorby, Midas, Booker, Faith, Gus & Sunny are quieted with a juicy bone)
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.