DAVID HILLEN, 1941 - 2005

THE MEMORY BOX
-by Heather Hillen, daughter of David Hillen

This intricately crafted coffin
seals tightly when closed;
on top - a slot for your picture
a thoughtful gift from a friend.

Each deposit seems a betrayal of you –
losing more of you
each time I open it
only to shut it again.

This beautiful pine box
encourages these thoughts,
enables me to write these words,
and my memories to escape from the box.


David James Hillen, 1941 - 2005, was born in Toronto where he attended Parkdale Public School, Parkdale Collegiate and graduated with a Master degree in History from the University of Toronto in 1965. David and his wife Janet soon traveled to Bolivia with the Baptist Mission Corps, where David taught English until returning to Ontario in 1969. David also taught English passionately, in Kitchener, Stoney Creek, and Mississauga until retiring in 1997.

David taught his students to believe in themselves and their ability to think creatively. A former student, musician Garnet Rogers spoke at his memorial service and said “David did nothing short of change my life”.

In addition to teaching, David wrote voraciously and his articles, poems, short stories and reviews have been published in numerous newspapers and anthologies. Living Downtown … familiarity breeds content which David co-wrote with his wife Janet was published in 2000. David’s book of poetry Even Our Shadows Dance was published in 2003.

Finally, David was a cherished family man who left his wife Janet and 4 children Heather, Andrew, Amanda and Stephen with teachings that are fundamental to who we are as people. He taught us to enjoy every moment as if it were our last, to love and respect all people all the time. He encouraged us to be fragile yet strong, courageous yet scared and that this is the essence of being human and it is ok. We miss him. Here are some poems by David.


A LIFE-STYLE DECISION

When I watch television
time flits
quick and shadowy
like a midnight spectre.

When I read books time
deepens, becomes
slow and full
like the air after rain.

I plan to read lots and lots of books
live a long, luscious life
before getting off
this Gutenberg Galaxy.


POETS MUST BE

Almost sorta’ mean
lean

know haste is waste
learn to tease out some truth in a form of words
get the feelings right
remain, sometimes, steadfastly unsure

clear, clear, pure, wise
capable of surprise
never merely witty, one of the guys

bold, serious fun
record life on the run
witness to events before the first coffee and the night cap
and the night cap and the first coffee
expose themselves in public
sigh over dandelions
point to the still centre that does hold

persons among people
sharing being
creating unregretted reading

sociable
almost sorta’ nice.


THEN FROST STRIKES

Flowers of the fall
we weather into winter
death, nothing
at all.

the few
that knew us
mourn briefly if
at all.

Then they too
dry, blacken, fall
and there is nothing
at all.

Only inside is can we be
-the frost strikes
and was makes us nothing
at all.


FINITE IS FINE WITH ME

Finite I am
inside time and space
god’s electric fence around the human race.

Finite is fine with me
allows me infinite possibility
a universe of places to go
whole nations of people to see
always changing – never the same
always becoming- never became.

Born I am
to be born again and again and again.