437 Death poems

On Death's domain intent I fix my eyes, Where human nature in vast ruin lies, With pensive mind I search the drear abode, Where the great conqu'ror has his spoils bestow'd; There there the offspring of six thousand years In endless numbers to my view appears: Whole kingdoms in his gloomy den are thrust, And nations mix with their primeval dust: Insatiate still he gluts the ample tomb; His is the present, his the age to come See here a brother, here a sister spread, And a sweet daughter mingled with the dead. But,Madam, let your grief be laid aside, And let the fountain of your tears be dry'd, In vain they flow to wet the dusty plain, Your sighs are wafted to the skies in vain, Your pains they witness, but they can no more, While Death reigns tyrant o'er this mortal shore. The glowing stars and silver queen of light At last must perish in the gloom of night: Resign thy friends to that Almighty hand, Which gave them life, and bow to his command; Thine Avis give without a murm'ring heart, Though half thy soul be fated to depart. To shining guards consign thine infant care To waft triumphant through the seas of air: Her soul enlarg'd to heav'nly pleasure springs, She feeds on truth and uncreated things. Methinks I hear her in the realms above, And leaning forward with a filial love, Invite you there to share immortal bliss Unknown, untasted in a state like this. With tow'ring hopes, and growing grace arise, And seek beatitude beyond the skies.

I I heard a small sad sound, And stood awhile among the tombs around: "Wherefore, old friends," said I, "are you distrest, Now, screened from life's unrest?" II —"O not at being here; But that our future second death is near; When, with the living, memory of us numbs, And blank oblivion comes! III "These, our sped ancestry, Lie here embraced by deeper death than we; Nor shape nor thought of theirs can you descry With keenest backward eye. IV "They count as quite forgot; They are as men who have existed not; Theirs is a loss past loss of fitful breath; It is the second death. V "We here, as yet, each day Are blest with dear recall; as yet, can say We hold in some soul loved continuance Of shape and voice and glance. VI "But what has been will be — First memory, then oblivion's swallowing sea; Like men foregone, shall we merge into those Whose story no one knows. VII "For which of us could hope To show in life that world-awakening scope Granted the few whose memory none lets die, But all men magnify? VIII "We were but Fortune's sport; Things true, things lovely, things of good report We neither shunned nor sought ... We see our bourne, And seeing it we mourn."

O King of terrors, whose unbounded sway All that have life must certainly obey; The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine, Nor would ev’n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline. My name is on thy roll, and sure I must Increase thy gloomy kingdom in the dust. My soul at this no apprehension feels, But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels; Thy scorching fevers, which distract the sense, And snatch us raving, unprepared, from hence; At thy contagious darts, that wound the heads Of weeping friends, who wait at dying beds. Spare these, and let thy time be when it will; My bus’ness is to die, and thine to kill. Gently thy fatal scepter on me lay, And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey.

When roaring gloom surged inward and you cried, Groping for friendly hands, and clutched, and died, Like racing smoke, swift from your lolling head Phantoms of thought and memory thinned and fled. Yet, though my dreams that throng the darkened stair Can bring me no report of how you fare, Safe quit of wars, I speed you on your way Up lonely, glimmering fields to find new day, Slow-rising, saintless, confident and kind— Dear, red-faced father God who lit your mind.

When from the world, I shall be tane, And from earths necessary paine, Then let no blacks be worne for me, Not in a Ring my dear by thee. But this bright Diamond, let it be Worn in remembrance of me. And when it sparkles in your eye, Think ’tis my shadow passeth by. For why, more bright you shall me see, Then that or any Gem can bee. Dress not the house with sable weed, As if there was some dismal deed Acted to be when I am gone, There is no cause for me to mourn. And let no badge of Herald be The sign of my Antiquity. It was my glory I did spring From heavens eternall powerful King: To his bright Palace heir am I. It is his promise, hee’l not lye. By my dear Brother lay me, It was a promise made by thee, And now I must bid thee adieu, For I’me a parting now from you.

Written in A Moment of Exasperation How can you lie so still? All day I watch And never a blade of all the green sod moves To show where restlessly you toss and turn, And fling a desperate arm or draw up knees Stiffened and aching from their long disuse; I watch all night and not one ghost comes forth To take its freedom of the midnight hour. Oh, have you no rebellion in your bones? The very worms must scorn you where you lie, A pallid mouldering acquiescent folk, Meek habitants of unresented graves. Why are you there in your straight row on row Where I must ever see you from my bed That in your mere dumb presence iterate The text so weary in my ears: "Lie still And rest; be patient and lie still and rest." I'll not be patient! I will not lie still! There is a brown road runs between the pines, And further on the purple woodlands lie, And still beyond blue mountains lift and loom; And I would walk the road and I would be Deep in the wooded shade and I would reach The windy mountain tops that touch the clouds. My eyes may follow but my feet are held. Recumbent as you others must I too Submit? Be mimic of your movelessness With pillow and counterpane for stone and sod? And if the many sayings of the wise Teach of submission I will not submit But with a spirit all unreconciled Flash an unquenched defiance to the stars. Better it is to walk, to run, to dance, Better it is to laugh and leap and sing, To know the open skies of dawn and night, To move untrammeled down the flaming noon, And I will clamour it through weary days Keeping the edge of deprivation sharp, Nor with the pliant speaking on my lips Of resignation, sister to defeat. I'll not be patient. I will not lie still. And in ironic quietude who is The despot of our days and lord of dust Needs but, scarce heeding, wait to drop Grim casual comment on rebellion's end; "Yes, yes . . Wilful and petulant but now As dead and quiet as the others are." And this each body and ghost of you hath heard That in your graves do therefore lie so still.

Tell me how you die and I will tell you who you are. Octavio Paz I stand in line. The woman ahead of me, blowzy-haired and angry, is told that grace is the act of restraint and road-kill is not a sport. She can choose to wait or test the judgment at another entrance. I know that morality, penance, a kind heart don't matter, nor the faith I embraced or didn't, the people I saved. I know the key is where I land on the scale of commitment. Earnhardt, Sr., died for the game, and got in. Many ancient Egyptians buried juggling balls with them, as though endless practice and craft were their gifts to the next world. They entered. I ask if I can peek in, maybe stand on the edge and look into the vast canyon of pits, arenas, fields, fairways, pools, rings, tables, tracks, courts, beaches, forests, mountains where war is forbidden. Here is what I bring for review: a nasty fastball, a runner-up ring, individual initiative, a contrary attitude, the heart of a poet. I bring a willingness to run like an outlaw, honor the Greeks and Makahiki, invent new games, practice past dusk, play on the second squad, and keep score until I can get in the game with eternity left on the clock. I hope it is enough.

It has been a while since you died, so where is your ghost? Haven’t seen him ever. You died twice and are double dead: failed the makeup exam. Tell me what my body does after your Internet reading. I like the idea of a controlled blast, leaping over page and stanza break alike. On one side a waterfall, soft hair, and on the other side a parallel waterfall, retreated on the wind. Another year pissed, made mulch. Still I squint for the clue he’d been by, a little urine left in the bowl. Makes fruit of the old sign still bright behind the tree.

let’s say you want flowers you should have flowers let’s say you want forever you should have flowers let’s say he should have you in and out by tuesday and if you want flowers you should have flowers and the flowers will stay fresh until tuesday you say yes that’s the way it’s done should you want flowers

Bones are easier to find than flowers in the desert, so I paint these: Fine white skulls of cows and horses. When I lie flat under the stars in the back of the car, coyotes howling in the scrub pines, easy to feel how those bones are so much like mine: Here is my pelvis, like the pelvis I found today bleached by the sun and the sand. Same hole where the hip would go, same white curve of bone beneath my flesh same cradle of life, silent and still in me.