437 Death poems

Men, brother men, that after us yet live, Let not your hearts too hard against us be; For if some pity of us poor men ye give, The sooner God shall take of you pity. Here are we five or six strung up, you see, And here the flesh that all too well we fed Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred, And we the bones grow dust and ash withal; Let no man laugh at us discomforted, But pray to God that he forgive us all. If we call on you, brothers, to forgive, Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we Were slain by law; ye know that all alive Have not wit alway to walk righteously; Make therefore intercession heartily With him that of a virgin's womb was bred, That his grace be not as a dry well-head For us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall; We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead, But pray to God that he forgive us all. The rain has washed and laundered us all five, And the sun dried and blackened; yea, perdie, Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee Our beards and eyebrows; never are we free, Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped, Drive at its wild will by the wind's change led, More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall; Men, for God's love, let no gibe here be said, But pray to God that he forgive us all. Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head, Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed; We have nought to do in such a master's hall. Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead, But pray to God that he forgive us all.

Wouldst thou hear what man can say In a little? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die; Which in life did harbour give To more virtue than doth live. If at all she had a fault, Leave it buried in this vault. One name was Elizabeth, Th' other let it sleep with death: Fitter, where it died to tell, Than that it liv'd at all. Farewell.

A Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel Weep with me, all you that read This little story: And know, for whom a tear you shed Death's self is sorry. 'Twas a child, that so did thrive In grace and feature, As heaven and nature seem'd to strive Which own'd the creature. Years he number'd scarce thirteen When fates turn'd cruel, Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been The stage's jewel; And did act (what now we moan) Old men so duly, As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one, He play'd so truly. So, by error, to his fate They all consented; But viewing him since (alas, too late) They have repented; And have sought (to give new birth) In baths to steep him; But being so much too good for earth, Heaven vows to keep him.

This little vault, this narrow room, Of Love, and Beauty, is the tomb; The dawning beam that gan to clear Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here, Forever set to us, by death Sent to inflame the world beneath. 'Twas but a bud, yet did contain More sweetness than shall spring again; A budding star that might have grown Into a sun, when it had blown. This hopeful beauty did create New life in Love's declining state; But now his empire ends, and we From fire and wounding darts are free; His brand, his bow, let no man fear, The flames, the arrows, all lie here.

This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument, Contains all that was sweet and innocent ; The softest pratler that e'er found a Tongue, His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song ; Which now each List'ning Angel smiling hears, Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres; Wanton as unfledg'd Cupids, ere their Charms Has learn'd the little arts of doing harms ; Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind, And tho translated could not be refin'd ; The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given, Toil'd here on Earth, retir'd to rest in Heaven ; Where they the shining Host of Angels fill, Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and smile.

Written on a slat of a railway car: If some time someone should find pearls threaded on a blood-red string of silk which, near the throat, runs all the thinner like life’s own path until it’s gone somewhere in a fog and can’t be seen— If someone should find these pearls let him know how—cool, aloof—they lit up the eighteen-year-old, impatient heart of the Paris dancing girl, Marie. Now, dragged through unknown Poland— I’m throwing my pearls through the grate. If they’re found by a young man— let these pearls adorn his girlfriend. If they’re found by a girl— let her wear them; they belong to her. And if they’re found by an old man— let him, for these pearls, recite a prayer.

When a man knows another man Is looking for him He doesn’t hide. He doesn’t wait To spend another night With his wife Or put his children to sleep. He puts on a clean shirt and a dark suit And goes to the barber shop To let another man shave him. He shuts his eyes Remembers himself as a boy Lying naked on a rock by the water. Then he asks for the special lotion. The old men line up by the chair And the barber pours a little In each of their hands.

everyone’s dying everyone’s dying to die everyone’s in my way on my way to die it’s too hot and dusty to die I am eating the ashes of the dead eating the exhaust of cars an image sacrifice looking for a boat to heaven namaste, your boat has bad karma out of the way I am burning inside of shame I am at the seat of ash on a boat to nowhere burning inside I am the end of time shiva orange rat queen goddess of money sleeping in time to die at the hands of doms sunrise to sunrise from the beiginning of time alone at the end of time rowing nowhere lost in serpentine alleys amongst the amputees and water buffalos amongst dust breathing souls looking into eyes looking back for anything not burning

It is no use to beg anymore. He has begged them many times to let me speak to the head of the army hospital, but he’s told nobody will listen to him, a bad-egg, who only deserves a bullet. “We’ve been ordered to get your skin,” the squad-leader says, “to repair the extensive burns of Liu Yi who risked his own life saving horses from the burning stable. Now, let’s go.” They take him to the hill behind the hospital. It’s dinner time and the loudspeaker is playing music. Nobody will hear the shot in the woods. They stop at a ruined temple whose stones, bricks and rafters have been ripped off by the villagers. In the distance a light is shining like a glow-worm. He doesn’t know whether it’s a star or a lamp. It doesn’t matter now. He takes it as the pole-star. His only worry is: I’m not nineteen yet and my parents will never know how their son disappeared. “Now you may say something if you want.” They pull out the towel from his mouth and wait. Suddenly he starts yelling, “I curse all of you, the whole hospital! All your babies will have no ass-holes and die at birth! I curse Liu Yi and his family too! He and his folks will be struck by thunderbolts!” They raise their pistols and he raises his tied hands: “Long live the Chinese Communist Party! Long live—” One pistol fires. He wanted to shout “Chairman Mao,” but they wouldn’t let him get it out. The bullet hit his penis— which is the best way to save the skin.

Merchants have multiplied more than the stars of heaven. Half the population are like the long grasshoppers That sleep in the bushes in the cool of the day; The sound of their wings is heard at noon, muffled, near the earth. The crane handler dies; the taxi driver dies, slumped over In his taxi. Meanwhile high in the air an executive Walks on cool floors, and suddenly falls. Dying, he dreams he is lost in a snowbound mountain On which he crashed, carried at night by great machines. As he lies on the wintry slope, cut off and dying, A pine stump talks to him of Goethe and Jesus. Commuters arrive in Hartford at dusk like moles Or hares flying from a fire behind them, And the dusk in Hartford is full of their sighs. Their trains come through the air like a dark music, Like the sound of horns, the sound of thousands of small wings.