Death arrives, unrelenting and vast, leaving behind a void that cannot be filled. We often avoid thinking about it until we are confronted with loss. Elizabeth Bishop reflected on this connection in her famous poem with the line, “The art of losing isn’t hard to master.”
Alfred Lord Tennyson, who experienced the sudden death of a close friend at 26, expressed his grief through poetry with the words, “Break, break, break/On thy cold grey stones, O sea!” His words capture the overwhelming sense of loss that death brings.
Losing someone you love, especially someone you’ve known intimately for years or raised from childhood, brings a unique kind of pain. It exposes those left behind to almost unbearable grief and deep despair.
Journalist and poet Warwick McFadyen has faced this darkness. He has published two short books that capture his thoughts and emotions following the sudden death of his son, Hamish, who passed away at 21 in 2019.
Similar to Nick Cave’s reflections in “Faith, Hope and Carnage,” McFadyen writes with honesty and power, blending prose, song lyrics, and poetry.
People cope with grief in various ways—through silence, art, meditation, or the support of friends. Each method becomes a way to navigate the balance between denial and acceptance, love that continues, and love that is halted by loss.
McFadyen’s book, The Ocean, opens with a haunting reflection:
“Every day I stare into the abyss and say good morning. Before sleep, I go to it and say good night, adding, See you in the morning. The abyss sits on a shelf.”
The Ocean is a collection of short prose pieces, written from two months after his son’s death to three years later. McFadyen describes his grief as a “monstrous wave” and a “dense, black, dead star” in his heart. He shares memories of his son, their conversations, and the interests they shared, making the reader feel the depth of his loss.
His writing often shifts into poetry or references poets who have influenced him—like Shakespeare, Rilke, and T.S. Eliot. He also touches on everyday interactions, such as the challenge of answering the simple question, “How are you?”
At the two-year mark, he writes:
“The here and now of him is like a small boat sailing from me on an ocean too wide and too deep to hold it back. Sometimes, in the ever-widening parting of the years, I think I can hear him say, let go dad, I’m gone.”
McFadyen’s evolving emotions are clear, but the pain and sense of loss remain strong in every word. His writing is a powerful expression of the lasting impact of grief.
Nearly two and a half years after Hamish’s death, McFadyen discovers that his suffering could be classified as “prolonged grief disorder,” a diagnosis recognized in the American Psychiatric Association’s DSM-5. This diagnosis allows for insurance coverage and the prescription of medications aimed at alleviating such pain. Drugs like Naltrexone, typically used for heroin withdrawal, are being tested for this purpose.
McFadyen strongly opposes this approach, viewing it as ignoring the deeper needs of the soul. For him, writing and marking the passage of time are forms of expression, not signs of illness. He questions, “If grief is taken from the landscape left after losing someone you love, what is left?”
“To lament is to love, even when the object of that love has gone,” he writes, emphasizing the need to feel deeply rather than treat grief as a disorder.
The later parts of The Ocean contain poems that range from specific memories of Hamish to broader reflections on nature and its cycles. As a surfer, McFadyen frequently draws on ocean imagery, using waves and the “lapping of each moment” as symbols of his ongoing grief.
In the final passage of this deeply personal book, written more than three years after Hamish’s death, McFadyen tries to explain why he writes about his loss. For him, “language is the bridge for one soul to cross to another.” He searches for the right words while staying true to the spontaneous “tidal surge of giving voice to thoughts in prose and poetry.”
“Who knew that ashes would weigh the same in your arms as when you held him as a baby.”
The companion book, The Centre of Zero, is a collection of poems organized under themes like Water, Light, Earth, Voices, and Time. The first section celebrates his love of water—waves, currents, and the way light dances on rivers and oceans. Later sections, especially Earth, contain heartfelt reflections, including the inscription on Hamish’s plaque.
McFadyen’s poetry is marked by simplicity and direct emotion, capturing the enduring love he feels for his lost son. Both books are touching tributes to Hamish’s short life and profound expressions of grief. While they may not be something everyone is ready to read now, they could offer comfort in times of need.