437 Death poems

You may think it strange, Sam, that I'm writing a letter in these circumstances. I thought it strange too—the first time. But there's a misconception I was laboring under, and you are too, viz. that the imagination in your vicinity is free and powerful. After all, you say, you've been creating yourself all along imaginatively. You imagine yourself playing golf or hiking in the Olympics or writing a poem and then it becomes true. But you still have to do it, you have to exert yourself, will, courage, whatever you've got, you're mired in the unimaginative. Here I imagine a letter and it's written. Takes about two-fifths of a second, your time. Hell, this is heaven, man. I can deluge Congress with letters telling every one of those mendacious sons of bitches exactly what he or she is, in maybe about half an hour. In spite of your Buddhist proclivities, when you imagine bliss you still must struggle to get there. By the way the Buddha has his place across town on Elysian Drive. We call him Bud. He's lost weight and got new dentures, and he looks a hell of a lot better than he used to. He always carries a jumping jack with him everywhere just for contemplation, but he doesn't make it jump. He only looks at it. Meanwhile Sidney and Dizzy, Uncle Ben and Papa Yancey, are over by Sylvester's Grot making the sweetest, cheerfulest blues you ever heard. The air, so called, is full of it. Poems are fluttering everywhere like seed from a cottonwood tree. Sam, the remarkable truth is I can do any fucking thing I want. Speaking of which there's this dazzling young Naomi who wiped out on I-80 just west of Truckee last winter, and I think this is the moment for me to go and pay her my respects. Don't go way. I'll be right back.

I’ve lived within half a mile of it for twenty years. West by the black iron weather-hen half-strangled with clematis on the garage roof I can locate it. Past a low ridge in the cliff face of a limestone dale there’s a cave in the bushes. When the old tigers were long since gone, leaving their teeth, the valley people would climb there with the dead they thought most useful; push them well in, take them out again, walk them around: ‘They’re coming! They’re coming’ We Malagasies love our second burials. We hire a band that comes in a van. Again with liquefaction almost done we hold our cherished ones in our arms. From the grave-clothes they fall in gobbets as dog-food falls from the can. We wrap them in fresh dry linen. They bless our lives with their happiness. Walk them around the valley. Drop here a finger for the god that is a rat or a raven, here a metatarsal to set under the hearth for luck. And what was luck? The afterlife back then was fairly long: nothing demented like for ever, nothing military. The afterlife would come to the party.

The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings. Scepter and crown Must tumble down And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field And plant fresh laurels where they kill, But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still. Early or late They stoop to fate And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death’s purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds. Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

Death has a life of  its own. See how its album has grown in a year and how the sharp blot of it has softened till those could almost be shadows behind the cherry blossoms in this shot. In fact you couldn’t prove they’re not.

All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with weed, The little cage of “Currer Bell” In quiet “Haworth” laid. This Bird – observing others When frosts too sharp became Retire to other latitudes – Quietly did the same – But differed in returning – Since Yorkshire hills are green – Yet not in all the nests I meet – Can Nightingale be seen –

Right up to my final hour I'll be obliging and polite. Should I hear death firmly knocking, I'll blithely shout: Come in all right! What's on the schedule? Dying, is it? Well, that's something rather new. But I'm sure that we can swing it, showing them a thing or two. What is this? Your hourglass? Interesting! And good to grasp. And the scythe is for grim reaping, did you say? I thought I'd ask. Which way should I turn from here? To the left? From where you stand? Well, all right then. To the graveyard? Where I take my final hand? Yes, the glass is out of sand now. Oh, I see, you want it back. May I ask you where you got it? So unusual, all in black. Is it antique? Oh well, whatever. I only meant to ask, old chap— What? No questions? No more talking? That's fine by me. I'll shut my— * * * Ach, noch in der letzten Stunde werde ich verbindlich sein. Klopft der Tod an meine Türe rufe ich geschwind: Herein! Woran soll es gehn? Ans Sterben? Hab ich zwar noch nie gemacht, doch wir werd'n das Kind schon schaukeln— na, das wäre ja gelacht! Interessant so eine Sanduhr! Ja, die halt ich gern mal fest. Ach—und das ist Ihre Sense? Und die gibt mir dann den Rest? Wohin soll ich mich jetzt wenden? Links? Von Ihnen aus gesehn? Ach, von mir aus! Bis zur Grube? Und wie soll es weitergehn? Ja, die Uhr ist abgelaufen. Wollen Sie die jetzt zurück? Gibt's die irgendwo zu kaufen? Ein so ausgefall'nes Stück Findet man nicht alle Tage, womit ich nur sagen will —ach! Ich soll hier nichts mehr sagen? Geht in Ordnung! Bin schon

Death is careless at times. It confuses love with a wet afternoon in an empty room.  The  unpainted walls a reminder of how sex can resemble poverty.  A hollow  cry.   An open mouth falling inside as you sleep.   I prepare  my heart and language with better words,  like worlds in small selves  I've built.  Every month,  one dollar buys me one brick.  But  how many bricks  does  it  take to build a house?  A stray dog barks late at night.  I can't  see him  but know he's there.   He   reminds   me   that  here,  dreams  have  dangerous  turns.  I  turn around  to  no  one  naked  beside  me. I  play  it  safe  not to see the fire in my hands.  But let us be clear:  I'm no beggar.  It's  just that there are times  when the  world  is  a  sound  that  cripples  the air,  and the soul. When what seems arranged — glazing and  strange,  like  music  played on tin cans — turns  into wilting  noise.  When  suddenly,  all  that  exists  is  a small boy trying to focus on the pain lifting a nation.  A telephone call:He was wearing black shoes, a Calvin  Klein  T-shirt  that he  found in a hotel trash, brown slacks.  She  was wearing  one  earring  on her right ear,  one sock on her left foot, a dress the color  of sky.  She  bought him  a canne à sucre.  He pulled her close, said, Ti cherie.   And  after  they  promised  to meet  later,   she  winked  and  walked leisurely in the shade. A tremble followed. When he turned around, her body was one of a thousand on the streets. He ran towards her, stood by her arm,unable to see her face. The call drops. I begin to count the ways I tolerate my dry mouth. To count the glasses of water I gave away to make up for my sins. But this act does not count when we fall out of our hearts.