Japanese Maple, written after he was diagnosed with leukaemia and emphysema, has been described as Clive James’s "farewell poem".
In the poem, the 'Kid from Kogarah' wrestles with his own mortality. It was published by the New Yorker in 2014 and promptly went viral online. James — a prolific wordsmith with an acerbic intellect, colossal vocabulary and passion for poetry — died in England aged 80. Hear him read the poem, accompanied by visuals from animator Lucy Fahey.
JAPANESE MAPLE, by Clive James
Your death, near now, is of an easy sort.
So slow a fading out brings no real pain.
Breath growing short
Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain
Of energy, but thought and sight remain:
Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see
So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls
On that small tree
And saturates your brick back garden walls,
So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?
Ever more lavish as the dusk descends
This glistening illuminates the air.
It never ends.
Whenever the rain comes it will be there,
Beyond my time, but now I take my share.
My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new.
Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.
What I must do
Is live to see that. That will end the game
For me, though life continues all the same:
Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes,
A final flood of colours will live on
As my mind dies,
Burned by my vision of a world that shone
So brightly at the last, and then was gone.
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