Please Come Again

On this day in the little town of Laramie in southeastern Wyoming, there is a remembrance for a lovely poet. If only I had ample petty cash – to be able to hop on a plane at a moment’s notice and fly to the other side of the world, simply to celebrate a friendship and a brilliant mind.

Craig Arnold has frequently been on my mind. Only last night I had a dream of him, standing amongst a crowd of admirers, within a great auditorium built to house artists such as he.

He always gave great advice. Sometimes I simply took it without knowing that it was the right choice, but doing so because I figured he knew best. He always turned out to be right. I could trust that.

In this dream, Craig, having fumbled through the mass, stood before me and gave me his advice once again. I listened carefully. I knew it would be important, that I should hold on to this advice because it would affect many future decisions.

When I woke, the advice had left me. I remember his face - nearly a foot above me - his bald head shining with the gleam of the auditorium lights. I could tell you what he was wearing, the tone of his voice, or how much sweat had accumulated on his nose; but I can’t remember the simple words he gave to me that were of such importance. Perhaps they will come back to me when I need them again. For now, I’m just grateful for the visit. I keep thinking I never got around to telling him that he reminded me of a bald Hugh Grant.


At RQA I spent a week teaching W.H. Auden’s “Stop All the Clocks” in my creative writing classes. The voice in the poem stayed in my head for days. I eventually had to mimic its rhythm and tone and there was only one person I knew I could write it for. This is for Craig:



So soon after, and yet so long
To ask in earnest what went wrong.
Open the church doors, call out the mass.
Prop up his coffin, let the people pass.
Arrange the pictures, line them along the mantle.
Let his face sing without preamble.
Lift him high above the rock.
Today we’ll call in the flock.
He carried a song, a light, my heart.
Expect these now to turn to dark.
Close the windows, keep the rain from off the sill.
Leave the wind chimes to their trill.
Over all the echoes, the organ, the slews,
Carve his name in the wood of the pews.
Kiss the orchids tied ‘round your neck.
So prettily they fall, as he did in death.