The Irish singer, songwriter, and folk-music hero Glen Hansard died on Wednesday, in a motorcycle accident, at the age of 56. “What I loved about seeing Glen Hansard live,” Hanif Abdurraqib writes, “was that he, spiritually, never stopped being the guy playing on a rainy street, trying to capture the attention of people walking by.” This took rigor and care, Abdurraqib argues, and a willingness to insist on the power of the stage as a communal space. Read Abdurraqib’s reflection on the urgent intimacy of a singer with a voice so loud it could fill a room—but so powerful it could draw you in with just a whisper: https://t.co/pzd9OllQw6
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
By Mary Elizabeth Frye
RIP you beautiful soul #glenhansard
Photograph: Stephan Vanfleteren