437 Death poems

Ida and Isidor Straus sleep side by side eternally in an Egyptian galley fronting their Woodlawn mausoleum. Symbolically they lie. Their boat is small; nor was her body recovered from the Titanic. And yet the image of the voyage holds. Why not embark? A river runs behind me on the other side of this dark window. A dream called Night Boat arranged us side by side in a black craft, sailing the river of forgetfulness until the stars went out. It was poetic license. I didn’t dream that boat. The boat was dream, and we were passengers balanced on the slippery cusp of daylight, unless you had already disembarked in some shadowy port, leaving me to sail along alone.

Three people in the snow getting rid of  themselves breath by breath and every six seconds a blackbird three people in raincoats losing their tracks in the snow walking as far as the edge and back again with the trees exhausted tapping at the sky and every six seconds a blackbird first three then two passing one eye between them and the eye is a white eraser rubbing them away and on the edge a blackbird trying over and over its broken line trying over and over its broken line

A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.

Twenty-four haiku, for each year he lived when you die, i’m told they only use given names christopher wallace no notorious neither b.i.g. nor smalls just voletta’s son brooklyn resident hustler for loose change, loosies and a lil loose kim let me tell you this the west coast didn’t get you illest flow or nah had our loyalties no need to discuss that now that your weight is dust that your tongue is air and your mother is coping as only she can i will also say that i have seen bed-stuy since b.k. misses you her walk has changed some the rest of the borough flails weak about itself middle school students not yet whispers in nine sev know the lyrics rote you: a manual a mural, pressed rock, icon, fightin word or curse course of history most often noted, quoted deconstructed sung hung by a bullet prepped to die:gunsmoke gunsmoke one hell of a hunch here you lie a boy twelve gauge to your brain you can’t have what you want be what you want you black and ugly heartthrob ever conflicted emcee respected lately premier king of the casket pauper of first life til puff blew you up gave you a champagne diet plus cheese eggs, welch’s you laid the blueprint gave us word for word for naught can’t fault the hustle knockoff messiah slanged cracked commandments, saw no honey, more problems a still black borough recoiled, mourned true genius slain the ease of your laugh the cut of your jib unique command of the room truthfully biggie what about you’s small no not legend not stature real talk just lifespan yo, who shot ya kid n.y.p.d. stopped searching shrugged off negro death well, we scour the sky we mourn tough, recite harder chant you live again of all the lyrics the realest premonition rings true: you’re dead. wrong

When my dad first started to die All my mom could remember Was the time he kicked her out After they first started dating So that he could go play golf It is the sort of thing we all remember When we feel death upon us I remember he died twice And once in my dream I just had to see him all nursed and swaddled as if he were sleeping But he wasn’t sleeping I stood in the white light of the nursing home bathroom With the sun spilling everywhere on me And tried to talk to him, but never, he’d never listen People don’t always listen to you when they are dead But that’s not sad I get tired And I don’t listen to one Goddamn thing you are saying But that is because most of the time you bore me And when I am finally asleep it is really nice just to dream I have seen a lot of things in this life But one thing I saw most readily Was that despite his eternal heartbreak And girlish silliness Mike’s face was kind of sweet, a sweet wind He is going to think it is weird that I put him in this poem But I don’t think it is weird that I put him in this poem

(from Twelfth Night ) Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid. Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown. Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there!

(from Cymbeline ) Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o’ the great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The scepter, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have; And renownèd be thy grave!

By a dismal cypress lying, Damon cried, all pale and dying, Kind is death that ends my pain, But cruel she I lov'd in vain. The mossy fountains Murmur my trouble, And hollow mountains My groans redouble: Ev'ry nymph mourns me, Thus while I languish; She only scorns me, Who caus'd my anguish. No love returning me, but all hope denying; By a dismal cypress lying, Like a swan, so sung he dying: Kind is death that ends my pain, But cruel she I lov'd in vain.

(from The Tempest ) Full fathom five thy father lies;

Out of the winds' and the waves' riot, Out of the loud foam, He has put in to a great quiet And a still home. Here he may lie at ease and wonder Why the old ship waits, And hark for the surge and the strong thunder Of the full Straits, And look for the fishing fleet at morning, Shadows like lost souls, Slide through the fog where the seal's warning Betrays the shoals, And watch for the deep-sea liner climbing Out of the bright West, With a salmon-sky and her wake shining Like a tern's breast, — And never know he is done for ever With the old sea's pride, Borne from the fight and the full endeavour On an ebb tide.