I was deeply saddened to hear ten days ago of the death of Jorn Cann, the ward doctor in the haematology unit where I was treated for lymphoma. He was a rare human being, and even rarer doctor: charming and objectionable, foul-mouthed yet compassionate. Nobody who met him -you usually heard him approaching before you actually saw him- will forget him. He was proof that Arsenal fans can have a sense of humour, and live testament to the hope of a cure for everyone he treated. The world is a smaller and much quieter place without him today.
Blood
in memory of Jörn Cann
The nurse announces the canula.
One Sharp scratch and you’re there,
vial after ochre vial,
unstoppable.
Cousin to tawny port
your sheen’s a glossy russet.
You do not gush, you seep,
but would soak
the world
if you could.
You’re not much to look at:
but, spun, you separate –
lymph, plasma
and marrow, the very core
of us, telling everything.
Famously salty
to the taste, you seem stable as mercury.
If only.
from Riddance (Worple, 2012)
Thursday 19 January 2012
In memory of Jorn Cann
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