437 Death poems

Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley, The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter? All, all are sleeping on the hill. One passed in a fever, One was burned in a mine, One was killed in a brawl, One died in a jail, One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife — All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith, The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one? — All, all are sleeping on the hill. One died in shameful child-birth, One of a thwarted love, One at the hands of a brute in a brothel, One of a broken pride, in the search for heart's desire, One after life in far-away London and Paris Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag — All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily, And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton, And Major Walker who had talked With venerable men of the revolution? — All, all are sleeping on the hill. They brought them dead sons from the war, And daughters whom life had crushed, And their children fatherless, crying — All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. Where is Old Fiddler Jones Who played with life all his ninety years, Braving the sleet with bared breast, Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin, Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven? Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago, Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary's Grove, Of what Abe Lincoln said One time at Springfield.

Or will we be lost forever? In the silence of the last breath Not taken The blue sweep of your arm like a dancer Clowning, in wrinkled pajamas, Across the sky the abrupt Brief zigzag of a jay... All night the whiteness And all day. Once we have been lifted up Into empty morning like ice In the darkness of these white fields Neither the ghost tracks of skis Nor steel skates will wake us Where are we looking for each other, separated On the opposite hillside I see you Miles away from me, a dot Of faint color reddening, small bruised warmth Opening its cranberry mouth and saying, What are you saying? * Under a cold blanket An immense loneliness stretches In every direction with no fences. A few sticks tweak the crusted snow: Thin remnants of an army Of lost soldiers. I see footsteps ahead of me but whose And where will they lead me, parallel Or converging? Is it not possible there will be one jet trail That will not vanish, Two phantom ribbons unfolding That will not feather themselves away? * Wrapped in our white parkas In what shifting laminations, snowflakes That mean nothing, transparent eyes spitting, What glacier will we choose to lie on, In what igloo rest Barely breathing, in an air pocket Just below the surface Rustling beneath blizzards Where is your foot, most beautiful With blue toenails I will be looking for it always Wherever it is, next to me In the darkness Of rumpled white sheets, Pale siftings, clouds Sudden scarves of ourselves gusting Loose, sandpapery as snow lifting In what chill citadel of ice crystals Will I find you?

From here into the north, the ways are dry. Yellow grass, thirst in the roots. In the hearts. It's all simple, but false. When I try to think history, the enormous vertebrae of the dinosaur behind the purple beeches in Invalidenstrasse, Bismarck in marble, and Benn, a nameplate on Bozener, lifeless. In the depths of the bunkers on Potsdamer Platz in Berlin are the shoes of Hitler's favorite horse. Profile of power: armor and helmet. In our pants pockets, we crumple the banners. Full of satisfaction we hear the flags splinter in the fabric's darkness. Don't forget the poets' loaded dice. When iron rules again, we will have to console ourselves, adorn stones with smaller stones, the heart with water. * * * Von hier in den Norden sind die Wege trocken. Gelbes Gras, Durst in den Wurzeln. Im Herzen. Alles ist einfach, aber falsch. Wenn ich versuche, Geschichte zu denken, die riesigen Wirbelknochen des Sauriers hinter den Blutbuchen in der Invalidenstraße, Bismarck in Marmor, und Benn, ein Klingelschild in der Bozener, leblos. In den Tiefen der Bunker des Potsdamer Platzes in Berlin liegen die Hufeisen von Hitlers Lieblingspferd. Profile der Macht: Harnisch und Helm. In der Hosentasche zerknicken wir die Standarten. Voll Genugtuung hören wir die Fahnen splittern im Dunkel des Stoffs. Vergeßt nicht die gefälschten Würfel der Dichter. Wenn die Eisernen wieder herrschen, werden wir uns trösten müssen, Steine schmücken mit kleinen Steinen, mit Wasser das Herz.

The morning after my death we will sit in cafés but I will not be there I will not be * There was the great death of birds the moon was consumed with fire the stars were visible until noon. Green was the forest drenched with shadows the roads were serpentine A redwood tree stood alone with its lean and lit body unable to follow the cars that went by with frenzy a tree is always an immutable traveller. The moon darkened at dawn the mountain quivered with anticipation and the ocean was double-shaded: the blue of its surface with the blue of flowers mingled in horizontal water trails there was a breeze to witness the hour * The sun darkened at the fifth hour of the day the beach was covered with conversations pebbles started to pour into holes and waves came in like horses. * The moon darkened on Christmas eve angels ate lemons in illuminated churches there was a blue rug planted with stars above our heads lemonade and war news competed for our attention our breath was warmer than the hills. * There was a great slaughter of rocks   of spring leaves of creeks the stars showed fully the last king of the Mountain gave battle and got killed. We lay on the grass covered dried blood with our bodies green blades swayed between our teeth. * We went out to sea a bank of whales was heading South a young man among us a hero tried to straddle one of the sea creatures his body emerged as a muddy pool as mud we waved goodbye to his remnants happy not to have to bury him in the early hours of the day We got drunk in a barroom the small town of Fairfax had just gone to bed cherry trees were bending under the weight of their flowers: they were involved in a ceremonial dance to which no one had ever been invited. * I know flowers to be funeral companions they make poisons and venoms and eat abandoned stone walls I know flowers shine stronger than the sun their eclipse means the end of times but I love flowers for their treachery their fragile bodies grace my imagination’s avenues without their presence my mind would be an unmarked grave. * We met a great storm at sea looked back at the rocking cliffs the sand was going under black birds were leaving the storm ate friends and foes alike water turned into salt for my wounds. * Flowers end in frozen patterns artificial gardens cover the floors we get up close to midnight search with powerful lights the tiniest shrubs on the meadows A stream desperately is running to the ocean *

If there is any dwelling place for the spirits of the just; as the wise believe, noble souls do not perish with the body, rest thou in peace ... —Tacitus Who keeps the owl’s breath? Whose eyes desire? Why do the stars rhyme? Where does The flush cargo sail? Why does the daybook close? So sleep and do not sleep. The opaque stroke lost across the mirror, The clamp turned. The polished nails begin the curl into your palms. The opal hammock of rain falls out of its cloud. I name you,Gloat-of- The-stalks, drowse-my-embers, old-lily-bum. No matter how well a man sucks praise in the end He sucks earth. Go ahead, step Out into that promised, rasp gratitude of night. Seeds and nerves.Seeds And nerves. I’ll be waiting for you, in some Obscure and clarifying light; I will say, Look, there is a ghost ice on the land. If the page of marble bleeds in the yellow grass, If the moon-charts glow useless and cold, If the grains of the lamp outlast you, as they must— As the tide of black gloss, the marls, and nectar rise I will understand. Here are my gifts:smudges of bud, A blame of lime. Everything you remember crowds Away. Stubble memory, The wallpaper peeling its leaves. Fog. Fog In the attic; this pod of black milk. Anymore, Only a road like August approaches. Sometimes the drawers of the earth close; Sometimes our stories keep on and on. So listen— Leave no address. Fold your clothes into a little Island. Kiss the hinges goodbye. Sand the fire. Bitch About time. Hymn away this reliquary fever. How the sun stands crossing itself in the cut glass. How the jonquils and bare orchards fill each morning In mist. The branches in the distance stiffen, Again. The city of stars pales. In my fires the cinders rise like black angels; The trunks of the olives twist once towards the world. Once. I will walk out into the day.

First the bad boots give up their strength, then the toes lift their anchors. The ankle bones are broken, and so on, until the bladder lets go, without shame, and the genital organ washes away, the ovum and her fertile signals. A proxy pain stands in for the larger intangible. Has nothing to do with tufts of snow blown upon the unforgiving surface, but how I mistook the beauty of those particle deaths, their of-the-world stardom, as a kind of metaphysical river, that if I looked long enough, with enough reverence... Let my waist, bled numb, stand in for that miscalculation. And the severed friendships in the current’s wake, the bloom blown off the stricken self. I saw formal water, knowing my body wanted to go there. My only child. How I’ve betrayed you.

Stop, Christian passer-by!—Stop, child of God, And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod A poet lies, or that which once seemed he. O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.; That he who many a year with toil of breath Found death in life, may here find life in death! Mercy for praise—to be forgiven for fame He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same!

After my father’s cremation, my sisters and I agreed to bury him privately when the ground thawed. One will plant a flowering tree, one see to the stone and its cutting, one call the grave digger and the town clerk. It’ll be just us, the daughters, presiding over ashes that could be any mammal’s, or those of any love dispersible by wind. Let’s bury the secret violence to his dogs, Pompey and Tara, Juba and Molly, their ashes already gone to this ground. And his “escapades,” as Mom called them. Here withers that branch of the tree. Let’s bury the ring inscribed In perpetuum ave atque vale(translated “Hail and farewell” by my father, “Hello, and good-bye forever” by Mom, a token dating back to the First Separation) and a tennis ball for canine shades. Your dad is with his dogs now, said more than one person at the funeral. It’ll be just us, the three inheritors, on a raw windy day in Death’s kingdom, lifting our eyes from the hole to the mountains hazed with spring, saying,In perpetuum ave atque vale, minor god of our father. Let’s each of us drop a few dog biscuits into his grave.

Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing, Nothing but bones, The sad effect of sadder groans: Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing. For we considered thee as at some six Or ten years hence, After the loss of life and sense, Flesh being turned to dust, and bones to sticks. We looked on this side of thee, shooting short; Where we did find The shells of fledge souls left behind, Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort. But since our Savior’s death did put some blood Into thy face, Thou art grown fair and full of grace, Much in request, much sought for as a good. For we do now behold thee gay and glad, As at Doomsday; When souls shall wear their new array, And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad. Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust Half that we have Unto an honest faithful grave; Making our pillows either down, or dust.

It sweats into the tongue and groove of redwood decks with a Tahoe view. It slides under the truck where some knuckles are getting banged up on a stuck nut. It whirls in the egg whites. Among blacks and whites spread evenly. Inside the chicken factory, the Falcon 7 x , and under the bridge. There’s death by taxi, by blood clot, by slippery rug. Death by oops and flood, by drone and gun. Death with honor derides death without. Realpolitik and offshore accounts are erased like a thumb drive lost in a fire. And the friendly crow sets out walnuts to pop under tires. So let’s walk the ruins, let’s walk along the ocean and listen to death’s undying devotion.