437 Death poems

In the old neighborhood, each funeral parlor is more elaborate than the last. The alleys smell of cops, pistols bumping their thighs, each chamber steeled with a slim blue bullet. Low-rent balconies stacked to the sky. A boy plays tic-tac-toe on a moon crossed by TV antennae, dreams he has swallowed a blue bean. It takes root in his gut, sprouts and twines upward, the vines curling around the sockets and locking them shut. And this sky, knotting like a dark tie? The patroller, disinterested, holds all the beans. August. The mums nod past, each a prickly heart on a sleeve.

A B H O R E N C E S November 10, 1984 Death by over-seasoning: Herbicide Death by annoyance: Pesticide Death by suffocation: Carbon monoxide Death by burning: Firecide Death by falling: Cliffcide Death by hiking: Trailcide Death by camping: Campcide Death by drowning:       Rivercide Lakecide Oceancide Death from puking: Curbcide Death from boredom: Hearthcide Death at the hands of the medical profession: Dockcide Death from an overnight stay: Inncide Death by suprise: Backcide Death by blow to the head: Upcide Death from delirious voting: Rightcide Death from hounding: Leftcide Death through war: Theircide & Ourcide Death by penalty: Offcide Death following a decision: Decide

They are all gone into the world of light! And I alone sit ling’ring here; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest, After the sun’s remove. I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days: My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays. O holy Hope! and high Humility, High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have show’d them me To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just, Shining nowhere, but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust Could man outlook that mark! He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest, may know At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. And yet as angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul, when man doth sleep: So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes And into glory peep. If a star were confin’d into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that lock’d her up, gives room, She’ll shine through all the sphere. O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under thee! Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass, Or else remove me hence unto that hill, Where I shall need no glass.

In restaurants we argue over which of us will pay for your funeral though the real question is whether or not I will make you immortal. At the moment only I can do it and so I raise the magic fork over the plate of beef fried rice and plunge it into your heart. There is a faint pop, a sizzle and through your own split head you rise up glowing; the ceiling opens a voice sings Love Is A Many Splendoured Thing you hang suspended above the city in blue tights and a red cape, your eyes flashing in unison. The other diners regard you some with awe, some only with bordom: they cannot decide if you are a new weapon or only a new advertisement. As for me, I continue eating; I liked you better the way you were, but you were always ambitious.

White ash, you wait for me as I will wait for someone. What but skin feels the wind, what darkness makes distinctions? Breaking down dusk and dawn, housewreckers on horse scaffolds syncopate their hammers. Brick dust drifts like smoke, tents of habitation withdrawn, hinges of habit undone.

If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: "Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age A dearer birth than this his love had brought, To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love."

Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill. Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell; Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O, if (I say) you look upon this verse, When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life decay, Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone.

Monterosa, your body is dead on Avenue A. Angelo, They found you eyes open staring at the beer Soaked floorboards. Did you want that? Did You mind them filling your back with buckshot? Angelo, I am angry with them all, and you Monterosa Killed and killers, killing and dealing dope. No good You were, no good they are. Still, I wish their fate To be bodies stacking under the same blue smoke. Monterosa, there is blood on your song, blood on the juke Box. The cowbell, the conga, and your corpse form the trio That is the rhinestone pin of my failure, your failure, Our failure, who loved, but did not rescue Angelo. Angel, hold him, while I bury him in these clean words, And pray to see the resurrection of the rose mountain.

To strip away this incessant chatter, yes, but what lies underneath it? Death, of course, or our fear of death. Which is why we talk so much, bury our heads in books, turn forests into pages and pages into mirrors in which we see ourselves appear and disappear. When I look up from the story I've been reading about the Jews in Nazi Germany and the silence that closed their mouths forever, I see a girl outside the cafe smiling in at her father who smiles back but cannot hear her. She makes all kinds of gestures with her hands, mimes herself inside an invisible box and breaks down laughing. Then she gathers her breath and blows it against the window. It is not snowing outside, the leaves have hardly begun to turn, the season is merely poised for the long descent, but still the glass steams up. And in this little cloud of warmth that's come from deep inside her body, she writes a single joyful word, which vanishes almost before she finishes.