437 Death poems

Pure veins of bogus blue-blood and such fancy hungers ~ In the end no surprise of reports of you dying younger than your gods ~ Kicked back in the classic toilet scene ~ With a spike in your arm and twelve large in pocket ~ Thanks to a lucky day scamming the dumb Social Services folks ~ It’s a human thing, pants at your ankles, leaving unclean ~ Because life’s road is only one night in a bad motel ~ Harry, you could play basketball in your bare feet, and win ~ You could name all the provinces of Canada ~ And simultaneously scour the Social Register ~ For the names of those sad and silly girls you wanted to get right ~ You relished autumn leaves and ignited inglorious schemes ~ Deconstructing the idea of prep-school Friday sunsets ~ In lavish October, stealing among faculty hors d’oeuvres and sherry ~ All the while creating your own hooligan oeuvre ~ With your others off to Yale, Colgate, Brown ~ Night after night, alone in L.A. ~ Seeking better quotas, vistas, cushion, heroin ~ And that last tricky exit to the Santa Monica Freeway ~ In one more borrowed car with one more borrowed fiction ~ Oh yes, you must have been laughing ~ And spitting back at the boldface of Pacific wind ~ Cruising the left coast on sheer gall ~ But mostly, at 3 a.m. , in the local playground, Harry ~ You played solitary ball ~ And dreamed of final seconds in a distant game ~ You drove to the sacred bucket with a fury ~ Slick crossover dribble, and then burst to the pull-up jumper ~ No harm, no foul, nothing but net. ~ But all alone, in the heart of West Hollywood, Harry, ~ You jerk, you bricked the last shot.

Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood, Who as soon fell fast asleep As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir The earth that lightly covers her.

In this little urn is laid Prudence Baldwin, once my maid, From whose happy spark here let Spring the purple violet.

To see both blended in one flood, The mothers’ milk, the children’s blood, Makes me doubt if heaven will gather Roses hence, or lilies rather.

Men drop so fast, ere Life’s mid Stage we tread, Few know so many Friends alive as dead; Yet, as immortal, in our uphill Chace, We press coy Fortune with unslacken’d Pace; Our ardent Labours for the Toy we seek, Join Night to Day, and Sunday to the Week, Our very Joys are anxious, and expire Between Satiety and fierce Desire.

Will death be like this? Like waking from a long dream still held—grounded— in the body disremembered? Spinning ceiling, close call? Foolish beating heart? Those trembling aftershocks of some electric message where bone met motion, clamoring in ligaments, that lingering tremolo singing in the ears like doubt, maybe the echo of some unrecognized once-familiar name. Estranged touch of wind over skin, on damp arms the hair not yet laid down . . . Breath's sour fluctuations not quite tamed. Cheeks' flush loosening, a displaced temperature sensed, unseasonal. Flash of light burning against walls, image after image, an eye, a frame, missing there. Where, searching, searchless, you can't point to or put a finger on, nevertheless an urge surging in raised fingers. A circle discontinuous, once rounded out by mouth. Throbbing inside the brow, no accessible thought. Specifically no memory arising from follicles still tingling, the dulling skull heedless, singed with salty pores. What if it's like this, only without the body?

Me moriré en Paris con aguacero ... I will die in Miami in the sun, On a day when the sun is very bright, A day like the days I remember, a day like other days, A day that nobody knows or remembers yet, And the sun will be bright then on the dark glasses of strangers And in the eyes of a few friends from my childhood And of the surviving cousins by the graveside, While the diggers, standing apart, in the still shade of the palms, Rest on their shovels, and smoke, Speaking in Spanish softly, out of respect. I think it will be on a Sunday like today, Except that the sun will be out, the rain will have stopped, And the wind that today made all the little shrubs kneel down; And I think it will be a Sunday because today, When I took out this paper and began to write, Never before had anything looked so blank, My life, these words, the paper, the gray Sunday; And my dog, quivering under a table because of the storm, Looked up at me, not understanding, And my son read on without speaking, and my wife slept. Donald Justice is dead. One Sunday the sun came out, It shone on the bay, it shone on the white buildings, The cars moved down the street slowly as always, so many, Some with their headlights on in spite of the sun, And after awhile the diggers with their shovels Walked back to the graveside through the sunlight, And one of them put his blade into the earth To lift a few clods of dirt, the black marl of Miami, And scattered the dirt, and spat, Turning away abruptly, out of respect.

Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons quelque chose, qui ne nous déplaît pas. ["In the hard times of our best friends we find something that doesn't displease us."] As Rochefoucauld his maxims drew From Nature, I believe 'em true: They argue no corrupted mind In him; the fault is in mankind. This maxim more than all the rest Is thought too base for human breast: "In all distresses of our friends, We first consult our private ends; While Nature, kindly bent to ease us, Points out some circumstance to please us." If this perhaps your patience move, Let reason and experience prove. We all behold with envious eyes Our equal rais'd above our size. Who would not at a crowded show Stand high himself, keep others low? I love my friend as well as you But would not have him stop my view. Then let him have the higher post: I ask but for an inch at most. If in a battle you should find One, whom you love of all mankind, Had some heroic action done, A champion kill'd, or trophy won; Rather than thus be overtopt, Would you not wish his laurels cropt? Dear honest Ned is in the gout, Lies rack'd with pain, and you without: How patiently you hear him groan! How glad the case is not your own! What poet would not grieve to see His brethren write as well as he? But rather than they should excel, He'd wish his rivals all in hell. Her end when emulation misses, She turns to envy, stings and hisses: The strongest friendship yields to pride, Unless the odds be on our side. Vain human kind! fantastic race! Thy various follies who can trace? Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, Their empire in our hearts divide. Give others riches, power, and station, 'Tis all on me a usurpation. I have no title to aspire; Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. In Pope I cannot read a line, But with a sigh I wish it mine; When he can in one couplet fix More sense than I can do in six; It gives me such a jealous fit, I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!" Why must I be outdone by Gay In my own hum'rous biting way? Arbuthnot is no more my friend, Who dares to irony pretend, Which I was born to introduce, Refin'd it first, and show'd its use. St. John, as well as Pultney, knows That I had some repute for prose; And, till they drove me out of date, Could maul a minister of state. If they have mortify'd my pride, And made me throw my pen aside; If with such talents Heav'n has blest 'em, Have I not reason to detest 'em? To all my foes, dear Fortune, send Thy gifts; but never to my friend: I tamely can endure the first, But this with envy makes me burst. Thus much may serve by way of proem: Proceed we therefore to our poem. The time is not remote, when I Must by the course of nature die; When I foresee my special friends Will try to find their private ends: Tho' it is hardly understood Which way my death can do them good, Yet thus, methinks, I hear 'em speak: "See, how the Dean begins to break! Poor gentleman, he droops apace! You plainly find it in his face. That old vertigo in his head Will never leave him till he's dead. Besides, his memory decays: He recollects not what he says; He cannot call his friends to mind: Forgets the place where last he din'd; Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; He told them fifty times before. How does he fancy we can sit To hear his out-of-fashion'd wit? But he takes up with younger folks, Who for his wine will bear his jokes. Faith, he must make his stories shorter, Or change his comrades once a quarter: In half the time he talks them round, There must another set be found. "For poetry he's past his prime: He takes an hour to find a rhyme; His fire is out, his wit decay'd, His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. I'd have him throw away his pen;— But there's no talking to some men!" And then their tenderness appears, By adding largely to my years: "He's older than he would be reckon'd And well remembers Charles the Second. "He hardly drinks a pint of wine; And that, I doubt, is no good sign. His stomach too begins to fail: Last year we thought him strong and hale; But now he's quite another thing: I wish he may hold out till spring." Then hug themselves, and reason thus: "It is not yet so bad with us." In such a case, they talk in tropes, And by their fears express their hopes: Some great misfortune to portend, No enemy can match a friend. With all the kindness they profess, The merit of a lucky guess (When daily "How d'ye's" come of course, And servants answer, "Worse and worse!") Would please 'em better, than to tell, That, "God be prais'd, the Dean is well." Then he who prophecy'd the best Approves his foresight to the rest: "You know I always fear'd the worst, And often told you so at first." He'd rather choose that I should die, Than his prediction prove a lie. Not one foretells I shall recover; But all agree to give me over. Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain Just in the parts where I complain, How many a message would he send? What hearty prayers that I should mend? Inquire what regimen I kept, What gave me ease, and how I slept? And more lament when I was dead, Than all the sniv'llers round my bed. My good companions, never fear; For though you may mistake a year, Though your prognostics run too fast, They must be verify'd at last. Behold the fatal day arrive! "How is the Dean?"—"He's just alive." Now the departing prayer is read; "He hardly breathes."—"The Dean is dead." Before the passing-bell begun, The news thro' half the town has run. "O, may we all for death prepare! What has he left? and who's his heir?"— "I know no more than what the news is; 'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses."— "To public use! a perfect whim! What had the public done for him? Mere envy, avarice, and pride: He gave it all—but first he died. And had the Dean, in all the nation, No worthy friend, no poor relation? So ready to do strangers good, Forgetting his own flesh and blood?" Now Grub-Street wits are all employ'd; With elegies the town is cloy'd: Some paragraph in ev'ry paper To curse the Dean or bless the Drapier. The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame: "We must confess his case was nice; But he would never take advice. Had he been rul'd, for aught appears, He might have liv'd these twenty years; For, when we open'd him, we found That all his vital parts were sound." From Dublin soon to London spread, 'Tis told at Court, the Dean is dead. Kind Lady Suffolk in the spleen Runs laughing up to tell the Queen. The Queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he should. He's dead, you say; why, let him rot: I'm glad the medals were forgot. I promis'd them, I own; but when? I only was the Princess then; But now, as consort of a king, You know, 'tis quite a different thing." Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: "Why, is he dead without his shoes?" Cries Bob, "I'm sorry for the news: O, were the wretch but living still, And in his place my good friend Will! Or had a mitre on his head, Provided Bolingbroke were dead!" Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! And then, to make them pass the glibber, Revis'd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber. He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters: Revive the libels born to die; Which Pope must bear, as well as I. Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day. St. John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen, and drop a tear. The rest will give a shrug, and cry, "I'm sorry—but we all must die!" Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, All fortitude of mind supplies: For how can stony bowels melt In those who never pity felt? When we are lash'd,they kiss the rod, Resigning to the will of God. The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortur'd with suspense and fear; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approach'd, to stand between: The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling; They mourn for me without dissembling. My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps: "The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?) Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) Six deans, they say, must bear the pall: (I wish I knew what king to call.) Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend. No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight: And he's engag'd to-morrow night: My Lady Club would take it ill, If he should fail her at quadrille. He lov'd the Dean—(I lead a heart) But dearest friends, they say, must part. His time was come: he ran his race; We hope he's in a better place." Why do we grieve that friends should die? No loss more easy to supply. One year is past; a different scene! No further mention of the Dean; Who now, alas! no more is miss'd, Than if he never did exist. Where's now this fav'rite of Apollo! Departed:—and his works must follow; Must undergo the common fate; His kind of wit is out of date. Some country squire to Lintot goes, Inquires for "Swift in Verse and Prose." Says Lintot, "I have heard the name; He died a year ago."—"The same." He searcheth all his shop in vain. "Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane; I sent them with a load of books, Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. To fancy they could live a year! I find you're but a stranger here. The Dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme. His way of writing now is past; The town hath got a better taste; I keep no antiquated stuff, But spick and span I have enough. Pray do but give me leave to show 'em; Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem. This ode you never yet have seen, By Stephen Duck, upon the Queen. Then here's a letter finely penn'd Against the Craftsman and his friend: It clearly shows that all reflection On ministers is disaffection. Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, And Mr. Henley's last oration. The hawkers have not got 'em yet: Your honour please to buy a set? "Here's Woolston's tracts, the twelfth edition; 'Tis read by every politician: The country members, when in town, To all their boroughs send them down; You never met a thing so smart; The courtiers have them all by heart: Those maids of honour who can read Are taught to use them for their creed. The rev'rend author's good intention Hath been rewarded with a pension. He doth an honour to his gown, By bravely running priestcraft down: He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, That Jesus was a grand imposter; That all his miracles were cheats, Perform'd as jugglers do their feats: The church had never such a writer; A shame he hath not got a mitre!" Suppose me dead; and then suppose A club assembled at the Rose; Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat. And while they toss my name about, With favour some, and some without, One, quite indiff'rent in the cause, My character impartial draws: "The Dean, if we believe report, Was never ill receiv'd at Court. As for his works in verse and prose I own myself no judge of those; Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em: But this I know, all people bought 'em. As with a moral view design'd To cure the vices of mankind: His vein, ironically grave, Expos'd the fool, and lash'd the knave. To steal a hint was never known, But what he writ was all his own. "He never thought an honour done him, Because a duke was proud to own him, Would rather slip aside and choose To talk with wits in dirty shoes; Despis'd the fools with stars and garters, So often seen caressing Chartres. He never courted men in station, Nor persons held in admiration; Of no man's greatness was afraid, Because he sought for no man's aid. Though trusted long in great affairs He gave himself no haughty airs: Without regarding private ends, Spent all his credit for his friends; And only chose the wise and good; No flatt'rers; no allies in blood: But succour'd virtue in distress, And seldom fail'd of good success; As numbers in their hearts must own, Who, but for him, had been unknown. "With princes kept a due decorum, But never stood in awe before 'em. He follow'd David's lesson just: 'In princes never put thy trust'; And, would you make him truly sour, Provoke him with a slave in pow'r. The Irish senate if you nam'd, With what impatience he declaim'd! Fair Liberty was all his cry, For her he stood prepar'd to die; For her he boldly stood alone; For her he oft expos'd his own. Two kingdoms, just as faction led, Had set a price upon his head; But not a traitor could be found To sell him for six hundred pound. "Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen He might have rose like other men: But pow'r was never in his thought, And wealth he valu'd not a groat: Ingratitude he often found, And pity'd those who meant the wound: But kept the tenor of his mind, To merit well of human kind: Nor made a sacrifice of those Who still were true, to please his foes. He labour'd many a fruitless hour To reconcile his friends in pow'r; Saw mischief by a faction brewing, While they pursu'd each other's ruin. But, finding vain was all his care, He left the Court in mere despair. "And, oh! how short are human schemes! Here ended all our golden dreams. What St. John's skill in state affairs, What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, To save their sinking country lent, Was all destroy'd by one event. Too soon that precious life was ended, On which alone our weal depended. When up a dangerous faction starts, With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; By solemn League and Cov'nant bound, To ruin, slaughter, and confound; To turn religion to a fable, And make the government a Babel; Pervert the law, disgrace the gown, Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; To sacrifice old England's glory, And make her infamous in story: When such a tempest shook the land, How could unguarded Virtue stand? "With horror, grief, despair, the Dean Beheld the dire destructive scene: His friends in exile, or the tower, Himself within the frown of power, Pursu'd by base envenom'd pens, Far to the land of slaves and fens; A servile race in folly nurs'd, Who truckle most when treated worst. "By innocence and resolution, He bore continual persecution, While numbers to preferment rose, Whose merits were, to be his foes; When ev'n his own familiar friends, Intent upon their private ends, Like renegadoes now he feels, Against him lifting up their heels. "The Dean did by his pen defeat An infamous destructive cheat; Taught fools their int'rest how to know, And gave them arms to ward the blow. Envy hath own'd it was his doing, To save that helpless land from ruin; While they who at the steerage stood, And reap'd the profit, sought his blood. "To save them from their evil fate, In him was held a crime of state. A wicked monster on the bench, Whose fury blood could never quench, As vile and profligate a villain, As modern Scroggs, or old Tresilian, Who long all justice had discarded, Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded, Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, And make him of his zeal repent; But Heav'n his innocence defends, The grateful people stand his friends. Not strains of law, nor judge's frown, Nor topics brought to please the crown, Nor witness hir'd, nor jury pick'd, Prevail to bring him in convict. "In exile, with a steady heart, He spent his life's declining part; Where folly, pride, and faction sway, Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay. "His friendships there, to few confin'd, Were always of the middling kind; No fools of rank, a mongrel breed, Who fain would pass for lords indeed: Where titles gave no right or power And peerage is a wither'd flower; He would have held it a disgrace, If such a wretch had known his face. On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, He vented oft his wrath in vain; Biennial squires to market brought; Who sell their souls and votes for nought; The nation stripp'd, go joyful back, To rob the church, their tenants rack, Go snacks with thieves and rapparees, And keep the peace to pick up fees; In ev'ry job to have a share, A jail or barrack to repair; And turn the tax for public roads, Commodious to their own abodes. "Perhaps I may allow, the Dean Had too much satire in his vein; And seem'd determin'd not to starve it, Because no age could more deserve it. Yet malice never was his aim; He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name; No individual could resent, Where thousands equally were meant. His satire points at no defect, But what all mortals may correct; For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe Who call it humour when they gibe. He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose, Whose owners set not up for beaux. True genuine dulness mov'd his pity, Unless it offer'd to be witty. Those who their ignorance confess'd He ne'er offended with a jest; But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote A verse from Horace, learn'd by rote. "He knew a hundred pleasant stories With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: Was cheerful to his dying day; And friends would let him have his way. "He gave the little wealth he had To build a house for fools and mad; And show'd by one satiric touch, No nation wanted it so much. That kingdom he hath left his debtor, I wish it soon may have a better."

His body ahead Of him on the bed He faces his feet Sees himself dead, A corpse complete With legs and chest And belly between Swelling the scene Of the crime you left, Taking your time, Angel of Death

In flat America, in Chicago, Graceland cemetery on the German North Side. Forty feet of Corinthian candle celebrate Pullman embedded lonely raisin in a cake of concrete. The Potter Palmers float in an island parthenon. Barons of hogfat, railroads and wheat are postmarked with angels and lambs. But the Getty tomb: white, snow patterned in a triangle of trees swims dappled with leaf shadow, sketched light arch within arch delicate as fingernail moons. The green doors should not be locked. Doors of fern and flower should not be shut. Louis Sullivan, I sit on your grave. It is not now good weather for prophets. Sun eddies on the steelsmoke air like sinking honey. On the inner green door of the Getty tomb (a thighbone's throw from your stone) a marvel of growing, blooming, thrusting into seed: how all living wreathe and insinuate in the circlet of repetition that never repeats: ever new birth never rebirth. Each tide pool microcosm spiraling from your hand. Sullivan, you had another five years when your society would give you work. Thirty years with want crackling in your hands. Thirty after years with cities flowering and turning grey in your beard. All poets are unemployed nowadays. My country marches in its sleep. The past structures a heavy mausoleum hiding its iron frame in masonry. Men burn like grass while armies grow. Thirty years in the vast rumbling gut of this society you stormed to be used, screamed no louder than any other breaking voice. The waste of a good man bleeds the future that's come in Chicago, in flat America, where the poor still bleed from the teeth, housed in sewers and filing cabinets, where prophets may spit into the wind till anger sleets their eyes shut, where this house that dances the seasons and the braid of all living and the joy of a man making his new good thing is strange, irrelevant as a meteor, in Chicago, in flat America in this year of our burning.