A Poetry Reading: 'To My Oldest Friend, Whose Silence Is Like A Death'

Fresh Air's classical music critic Lloyd Schwartz is also a poet. He recently published a poem about friendship and loss on Poets.org. It's titled "To My Oldest Friend, Whose Silence Is Like A Death:"

In today's paper, a story about our high school drama

teacher evicted from his Carnegie Hall rooftop apartment

made me ache to call you — the only person I know

who'd still remember his talent, his good looks, his self-

absorption. We'd laugh (at what haven't we laughed?), then

not laugh, wondering what became of him. But I can't call,

because I don't know what became of you.

— After sixty years, with no explanation, you're suddenly

not there. Gone. Phone disconnected. I was afraid

you might be dead. But you're not dead.

You've left, your landlord says. He has your new unlisted

number but insists on "respecting your privacy." I located

your oldest son, who refuses to tell me anything except that

you're alive and not ill. Your ex-wife ignores my letters.

What's happened? Are you in trouble? Something

you've done? Something I've done?

We used to tell each other everything: our automatic

reference points to childhood pranks, secret codes,

and sexual experiments. How many decades since we started

singing each other "Happy Birthday" every birthday?

(Your last uninhibited rendition is still on my voice mail.)

How often have we exchanged our mutual gratitude — the easy

unthinking kindnesses of long friendship.

This mysterious silence isn't kind. It keeps me

up at night, bewildered, at some "stage "of grief.

Would your actual death be easier to bear?

I crave your laugh, your quirky takes, your latest

comedy of errors. "When one's friends hate each other,"

Pound wrote near the end of his life, "how can there be

peace in the world?" We loved each other. Why why why

am I dead to you?

Our birthdays are looming. The older I get, the less and less

I understand this world,

and the people in it.