Denise Krebs is a retired elementary teacher. She has been writing in this space since April 2020. She appreciates all the relationships she has made with the poets here, and looks forward to meeting more of you this month. She lives with her husband in the high desert of California. She has two married daughters and one adorable baby grandson.
Inspiration
“Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it.”
― Haruki Murakami, Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman: 24 Stories
Mortality has been on my mind lately. Poets have had it on their minds for millennia, as well. Besides poems of love and life, themes of death, grief, and loss dominate poetry. What would you say about death in a poem? Here Mary Oliver ties her “When Death Comes” poem to living life fully.
When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
Nikki Giovanni, in her poem “Rosa Parks,” ties the horrific death of Emmett Till with the Pullman Porters who helped him on his way to Mississippi and how, later that same year, Rosa Parks “sat back down.” You have to read it. It begins:
This is for the Pullman Porters who organized when people said
they couldn’t. And carried the Pittsburgh Courier and the Chicago
Defender to the Black Americans in the South so they would
know they were not alone.
Read the rest of Giovanni’s poem here.
Process
Today I invite you to explore death in a poem.
- Is there something you need to write about it?
- Perhaps a tribute or an elegy in honor of someone?
- Do you have questions to ask Death, or God, or Justice in poetic form?
- Use any form you would like (maybe a haiku, prose poem (as Giovanni did), cento (a collage poem from others who have written about death), or a golden shovel, which is the form I used in my example.)
- Or just let your poem go where it will, free of form (as Oliver did)
Of course, as always, you can write about anything you wish, in any form you wish. We’re here with you to celebrate whatever you write and post today.
Denise’s Poem
On second
“Death, you shall die”
is what Donne says. It is
not “mighty and dreadful,”
the winner at the end of life. The
opposite is true, he contends, as does Paul
of the New Testament. Love, Holy One, Bread of
Life, you are the Author of Life, Conqueror of Death,
but sometimes
a little part of me, (maybe a big
part of me,) just wonders
of what and when
it will be.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Literally just had to put down my cat that I’ve had for 18 years, so I had to make it a bit more vague so I didn’t cry and not finish writing. I also used the quote “Come back. Even as a shadow. Even as a dream” to start each line
Come on! Forward not
back. Onto the next adventure
even if you’re not ready. Even
as the tears dry on your cheeks.
A laugh or smile can break through the darkest
shadow.
Even though I’m not physically there, it will always be
as if I am because I live in your heart and
a memory of the
dream life and love.
Oh Hope, I’m so sorry for your loss–18 years! What a sad day. I’m sore these words being comfort…
I’m sorry. I’m sure these words bring comfort. Peace to you.
how long?
how long gone
before the heart forgets
accepts
lets go?
how will I know?
pass over?
how will I know
to rise again?
©draft, Patricia J. Franz
Patricia, thank you for the questions. The questions end with one of hope. “How will I know to rise again?” It will happen. I like the “pass over?” question as well on this week of Passover, it seems to add another meaning. Peace to you, and thank you for sharing your poem today.
I took your 92-year old sister to see you today
In the ICU of all places,
All hooked up to tubes and ports
It’s a life-threatening infection they said
A tick-born illness
Shutting down your kidneys
Causing mental confusion
Filling your body up with fluid
Screw you, you damn tick
Today I watched you struggle to breathe,
To talk,
Yet you told me you loved me
“And God loves you, too”
Yes, yes He does,
But do not even THINK of leaving us
The dialysis is coming
Further diagnoses are coming
Your family is coming
The priest is coming
Don’t you dare think of leaving
Not now,
Not yet.
Oh, Heidi. I’m so sorry for this. It is so fresh and raw. It brings up so many questions, and I just want to say with you, “Screw you, you damn tick.” Peace to you all!
I’ve submitted this before, but I do love it because of its truth:
NORWEGIAN SENDOFF
A circling plane
preparing for a landing
on a frozen February runway
in a deep Minnesota winter.
White smoke coming from
snow covered chimneys
against a white cloudy sky.
A time to die
Heart is shredding and dreading.
He will not allow tears.
Too much spice for a stoic
6’4” Norwegian Viking.
He wants a good ‘Sina and Ole’ joke.
He expects it.
He misses his mom.
He is joyful at the coming reunion.
Put on the big girl Norwegian panties.
He’s sitting majestically in his chair,
with an impish look on his face
teasing the nurse beside him.
“You have to pick February to die, old man?”
I question him.
“You can’t do this in June or July?”
He laughs like a loon; the nurse thinks I’ve lost my mind.
She begins to give him his at-home instructions.
He hunches down imperfectively.
I know he’s up to something
because there’s a twinkle in his eye.
“You can’t walk up and down stairs.”
The nurse instructs him. “WHAT???”, he shouts back,
“WHAT DID SHE SAY?” – his hearing is perfectly sound.
I repeat her instructions in a loud voice.
Wondering what he’s up to,
“Take your medicine on time”, she says, and again,
“WHAT?? SHE’S MUMBLING”, he says with a smile
playing about his lips.
YOU MUST TAKE YOUR MEDICINE ON TIME”, I repeat loudly,
knowing full well he heard her the first time.
Finally, she says to him, “You cannot lift anything heavier than 5 pounds.”
Right on cue, “WHAT? WHAT’S SHE SAYING??”, he looks at me innocently.
“DADDY”, I say in a near shout now, feeling quite stupid,
“SHE SAID YOU CANNOT LIFT ANYTHING HEAVIER THAN 5 POUNDS.”
He hunched down even further into his chair, then looked up at the nurse and said,
“WELL THEN I GUESS I’LL JUST HAVE TO SQUAT TO PEE!!!!”
Oh my gosh, Judy, I’m so glad you revisited this poem with us. Your father was a gem. What a delightful sense of humor, and his daughter was gifted with one, as well:
I suspected it was about him throughout, but the sweet DADDY plea at the end confirmed it, and felt so intimate. Thank you for inviting us into this sweet sendoff.
Denise, thank you for this prompt and your poem. I, too, often wonder when and how it will be and only wish I’m able to tie up loose ends before it comes.
It took me much of the whole day to think of a poem that would do justice to this prompt – I don’t feel like I did but I’m not going to procrastinate about posting any more.
The Death I Know
The Death I know wears a crown of foxgloves,
Flowy lilac gowns, eyes the color of amethysts.
I ask her, “Are you only for my universe?
Or do you travel galaxies and jump through wormholes?”
I ask her, “Do you ever feel lonely?
Or do the souls you take become your confidantes?”
I ask her, “Is the work traumatizing? Exhausting?
Or do you simply go through the motions?”
I ask her, “What is your biggest secret?
Biggest fear? Bucket list? Biggest regret?”
The Death I know crinkles her eyes, her lips perking up,
She looks at her wrist, sans wristwatch, and steps closer.
Her palm caressing my cheek, radiating kindness,
Death says to me, “Ask your truth.”
And I ask her, “Do the people we love still love us
Even in death? Do they remember like the living do?”
As I crumble into memory,
Death sighs, whispers, “After all this time?”, disappears.
Until… The Death I know wears a crown of nightshade…
What an eerily beautiful characterization you have created here, Saba. I don’t think I’ve ever considered a Death so beautiful before. The questions are indeed poetic but sharp in their desire to know that which cannot be known. How gentle your death is, but firm. I would love to use this with my students, ask them to each write their own version of Death and the conversation that might take place. It seems like an inviting way to have them contemplate what they may be afraid to consider. Thank you!
Oh, Saba, you have spent some beautiful time on this today. What a rich, complex and thoughtful verse about the death you know. There are so many favorite images of kindness and understanding from this Death:
Wow, you are a master of writing dialogue, Saba. Gorgeous.
Oh how I loved this poem, the new twist on ‘deaths’ appearance, and mannerisms. I loved how you asked Death questions, “Do you ever feel lonely? Or do the souls you take become your confidantes?”, I love that you refer to Death as a ‘her’; but my favorite line is, “Her palm caressing my cheek, radiating kindness, Death says to me, “As your truth.” It is simply a beautiful piece of poetry.
To the dead one,
from the one still alive
For a dead person, you sure take up a lot of space.
It’s not just any person who, long after leaving the house, can fill it with silence so thick
not even a sleepless infant
not even tantrums
not even almost perfect
not even winning
not even a crime
not even words in print
not even photographic evidence
not even logic
not even trying harder
not even a daughter
can break.
A daughter can break before
the silence you left
can break, so thick
a daughter can break.
A silence can break a daughter.
But it’s not just any person who
by logic
by leaving
by these words in print,
can break a silence.
A daughter can break her silence.
A dead one can’t.
Wow, Anne. This is one to let steep. There are so many references in here that both pique my curiosity and yet clearly ‘answer the question.’ I both miss and don’t miss ‘the dead one’ on behalf of the speaker. What a tangled relationship, but then, aren’t they all in their own ways? The ending, even with its punctuation can be read “A daughter can break her silence a dead one can’t.” – which makes it sound like the daughter is breaking the dead one’s silence for her, and then the dead one is identified as a she. It’s an interesting way to double-entendre that ending. And, alas, now this dead one also fills my head! : ) Nicely done!
Anne, this is an amazing poem. Haunting is the word that keeps popping up in my head as I think how to describe the experience of reading this. The way you describe the bigness and the overwhelmingness of the silence is the perfect way to describe a devastating loss. You can hear the silence louder than anything.
Anne, oh my word. What a poem, so masterfully written. It is heart-wrenching and full. Like Denise H. said, I too found myself missing and not missing “the dead one.” That list of things that still can’t break the silence:
And then all the lines of breaking daughter and breaking silence. Just amazing. I would love to hear you read this poem. Peace to you.
On All Souls Day
On All Souls Day, Godot died.
Our second dog euthanized that year.
It’s hard to lose two dogs in a year.
On All Souls Day, we went out for tacos and mezcal.
Time to talk about our morning.
Should we give up on dogs.
It’s hard to lose a dog.
This year on All Souls Day, we lit a candle.
Surrounded by Godot’s collar out on the back porch.
She’ll know we are waiting.
Jamie, this is beautiful. I’m sorry for your loss of Godot, The details that it happened on All Souls Day, and of going out for tacos and mezcal makes us feel we are there. The conversation is important. Should we give up on dogs? It is a loss that is hard to process and doesn’t go away, especially two dogs in one year. The candle, surrounded by her collar, is meaningful, and I love the concluding sentence of “She’ll know we are waiting.” It makes us feel closer to her, as well.
Jamie,
As dog lovers, we know your pain and are still grieving over the death of our beloved Puck. I keep his collar hanging from a wall sconce by my bedside and his ashes in a wooden box on the dresser until we decide where to spread them. That will be hard. One day you will be ready for a new dog, and it will happen when you least expect it.
Jamie, I’m sorry for you and your family. I have no words. Aside from the fact that I wanted you to know that I love so much that your dog was named Godot. (And the ending of your poem is brilliant and heartbreaking.) Waiting for Godot is one of the most important plays of the twentieth century. She must have been a very good dog, indeed!)
Thank you, Denise, for the thoughtful prompt. I had too much to say so I let myself write and distilled a few haiku.
when I take the time
I can find some peace with the
inevitable
no time for seeking
no pathways or maps to peace—
a boat capsizing
our one and only
shared human experience
besides being born
Laura, Wow, today you have distilled so many wonderful thoughts into these three haiku. The first one is beautiful, finding “peace with the inevitable.” “A boat capsizing” what an image. And I just had to ponder that last haiku for a while. I guess that is true, birth and death are the two universal shared experiences. A profound thought.
Laura,
If I’m reading these three haiku correctly, you have experienced the greatest loss a mother can, and in a tragic accident, too. I understand why you had much to write about today and why you chose the minimalistic haiku form. It is fitting. Peace and comfort to you.
Glenda, thanks for responding. I have not personally experienced the loss but had a family member who did when I was young. Now, as a mother, it’s hard to look at her story
The best closing line ever.
Such simple, profound truth and wisdom. I loved it.
Denise, thank you for this opportunity to reflect on Good Friday. Your poem is so vulnerable, especially the end, with a question that plagues humans and humanity.
Lilacs blooming are a sign the year is passing
out of winter and crawling toward the safety
of sweet, sweet spring. But
the truth is that even in new beginnings, the
dead, the regret, the yearning, the unfinished business
land squarely in our laps,
mixing in and out of our daily lives.
memory sustains, nightmares scare,
and dreams prevail. Each keeps us uniquely human–we must
desire and know there is life after grief.
“April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.”
– TS Eliot, “The Waste Land”
Rachelle,
What a wonderful poem. Yes, we are all human, and there is life after death.
Rachelle, you have taken that interesting quote and made some magic with it in your golden shovel. I just keep reading and rereading. Your voice is soft and steady and wise. Some of my favorites:
“crawling toward the safety
of sweet, sweet spring” is one I love.
“the dead, the regret, the yearning, the unfinished business land squarely in our laps”
“Each keeps us uniquely human” – I love this idea!
“life after grief”
Rachelle,
I love that you used that T.S. Eliot quote–I’ve been using “April is the cruelest month” like a chant in my head for the last week! The images you create with the seasons, growth, rebirth, and everything are really apt. “There is life after grief” indeed.
Your poem, Rachelle, evoked strong emotion within me – joy, yearning, fear, desire – I must re-read it again and again . . . it’s that good.
Death is too big for a poem.
She’s a tsunami
crashing against
grocery lists and alarm clocks and best intentions
Death is too small for a poem.
She’s a grain of sand
rubbing under
my sock impossible to accuse yet there.
Death is a poem
waiting for me to write.
Oh, Allison, one of my favorite poets. I’m so glad you wrote with us today. Your poem is perfect. I love the first lines of each stanza. Each one is a masterpiece, and the personification of death is so real. The “tsunami crashing against / grocery lists and alarm clocks and best intentions” Wow. I’m so glad you wrote it.
You tackle the paradox of writing about death so cleverly. Juxtaposition on “tsunami” to “grain of sand” demonstrates the way magnitude and subtle ways grief affects people at different moments throughout the day. Thanks for sharing! I love “meeting up” with you here.
Allison, you really nailed it and did so within a paradox, or is it ironic/hypocritical (for you Ted Lasso fans 🙂 )? I love the way you capture how death permeates in the largest and the smallest sense. The image of a tsunami is just right.
I love your comparisons. Too big, too small. a poem waiting to be written. Looking at it from a distance it’s great, indescribable. The comparisons provide something to concrete for it to sit in.
Allison, I love your poem! The contrasts are perfect! I can feel death as a physical annoyance throwing off everything and unable to be ignored! Powerful piece!
Allison, I love how you capture the way pain is impossible to be ignored. That grain of sand, the tsunami that throws off everything. Powerful piece!
Allison, I love what you did with something so hard to describe like death. You are spot-on, “she’s a tsunami” and most assuredly “She’s a grain of sand rubbing…”
The ending is almost convincing me it’s nothing as hard as a poem or a grain of sand. Wow.
💙
Wow! So simple and yet so powerful! I love “Death is too big for a poem” with the tsunami followed by “Death is too small for a poem” with the grain of sand. I never would have thought of this. I love it!
Denise, what a poignant topic! Your exemplars and your own poem are all beautiful. As I thought about the topic of death, my heart drifted to my younger sister who has chronic health issues, and the weariness she carried with her.
Anytime
You settle wearily into a chair
“I’m ready to die
anytime,
living is too hard.”
I stare at you
“Are you kidding?
I’ve too much to do
to die anytime soon.”
We are unmistakably sisters,
you half a generation younger.
Once we both knew, expected
our next adventure was arriving anytime.
I am sad to see how
life has beaten you down,
because anytime all I see
is my sweet baby sister.
Although it is not my place
to fix or judge anytime,
I (sometimes) recognize
my (wanting to) boss you around.
I know we don’t control
when our clock runs out,
but my wish for us both is that
anytime is a long time away.
Charlene, that is so difficult–your “sweet baby sister” suffering so much.
I too wish for you both a long life of health, and a day when she will want anytime to be your next adventure coming up.
I like your use of the word anytime three times and the various meanings around each.
Charlene, thank you for the vulnerability of your poem and the hopeful ending. Like you, I have a younger sister who I will always see as “my sweet baby sister.” I have the same tendencies to (want to) “boss” my sister around and only “(sometimes) recognize” it. Thanks for working through these feelings in your poem. I can imagine you’re in a difficult place. Sending love and healthy vibes your way!
I just took my 92 year old mother to see her 90 year old baby sister in the ICU fighting for her life. It is as though you know them. What a poignant, beautiful poem.
Although it is not my place
to fix or judge anytime,
I (sometimes) recognize
my (wanting to) boss you around.
This is them.
Thank you.
Denise, thanks so much for this prompt. Just two weeks ago, two students at our school died in separate circumstances on the same day. I’ve been thinking about all of our student body, especially the ones on the periphery, and how hard it is just the same. I appreciate being able to sit with it.
Thursday, March 30th
It’s okay to feel even if you didn’t know either of those boys. You aren’t supposed to lose two classmates in one year but you lost two in one day.
You’re supposed to feel invincible at seventeen. You’re not supposed to hear first hour canned announcements and improved canned announcements and witness teachers weep through reading canned announcements, wondering how you’re supposed to handle it if even the adults cannot.
If you knew T, you might wonder what you didn’t see, asking yourself if a ghost walked among you pretending to laugh at your jokes pretending to listen in class pretending to be okay. You sat at his table, after all, and what if you could have asked a question, extended an invite, found a road in. You’re only seventeen and you’ve had bad days too.
If you knew E, you might be thinking about how your grandma died of cancer but she was eighty-three so while it was sad it at least felt normal. E spent all three years of high school fighting while you were arguing with your girlfriend about where to eat dinner at prom and crying about losing the state championship basketball game and complaining about math problems and worrying about where to go to college. You bought a Team Eli shirt and witnessed his fight and heard all the talking about his fight and wonder why such a kind kid would lose a battle against something so unkind. His family believes so hard in God and you are questioning it for the first time ever and it’s scary and it’s okay.
You might not have known either, but still a pit lurches in your stomach some days, walking through the halls, surrounded by all this youth that is supposed to be strong but might not actually be. You don’t want to tell anyone you keep thinking about them, keep reading their obituaries at night, keep running through each possibility you could have brushed shoulders. You don’t want to steal someone’s real grief but
You want to sit with it a bit, stare it down: this new reality where people your age die.
Brenna, this is heartwrenching. “You’re supposed to feel invincible at seventeen” indeed. Many years ago, I lost a younger brother to accidental drowning. He was just starting his senior year of high school. Amen about sitting with it a bit anytime we live through tragedy.
Oh, Breanna, I’m heart-broken. Thank you for sitting with this and writing to those who are worried and scared. How shocking and horrific that your school would have to lose two students on the same day. That is difficult for all in your school, especially the young people, and, as you say, the ones on the periphery, perhaps the ones that lack support.
“this new reality where people your age die.”
I’m thinking of you all. Peace to you, and I hope the students know you are there to listen and for them to process.
Breanna, I’m so sorry for your community’s hard losses. I love the way you let your students know that they are seen and that their lives, no matter how seemingly trivial in a moment like this, are valuable and important. The second person voice is so powerful here. Thank you for sharing.
Brenna,
This is so well done and I feel it in my heart. We’ve lost students over the years I’ve been at my school and it never gets easier. My heart goes out to you as you process the double tragedies.
Brenna, Thank you for writing this. Some of the lines that especially spoke to me:
“You sat at his table, after all”
“crying about losing the state championship basketball game”
“His family believes so hard in God and you are questioning it for the first time ever”
You KNOW the heads and hearts of your students and you speak with tenderness and honesty to them. That’s what good poems do: take the pain of human experience and give it some beauty.
I got a late start on this today, but the topic made me think of all the students I have lost to death over 27 years of teaching. Suicides, illness, murder, accidents–none I really wanted to completely revisit, so I used a favorite line from Dorothy Parker.
I have lost students to death more times, I
think, than anyone would like to.
No one taken would be best, but that
matter of mortality inserts itself
where we wish it wouldn’t.
You don’t mean to, but the mind will
stray to those lost too soon.
That list is longer than
I’d like.
Shall I allow myself to muse, I
go into the memories
with good intentions and
you aren’t there clearly anymore.
A strange ephemeral veil is in the
way of seeing those lost far too young.
I think no matter where you stray
That I shall go with you a way
–from Dorothy Parker’s “But Not Forgotten”
Cara,
I enjoyed where you took this. I have not personally lost a student yest, but I have sat with students who have lost a friend. You have done your students proud.
Cara, your last three lines are particularly striking.
Cara, What a beautiful line from Dorothy Parker, and you capture the strange weight of witnessing all these young deaths. It’s tough. My favorite line of yours:
I also have never lost a student to death, but can only imagine it must be devastating. I love the sentiment of going with them a way.
Cara, I honor your choice to look at students’ death from a distance. I get that personally. You chose a hope-filled line as your golden shovel, then gifted me with this: “A strange ephemeral veil is in the
way of seeing those lost far too young.”
Thank you. I felt this on multiple levels.
Cara, thank you for writing this poem today. As sad as it is, this community would be the community to understand the feeling. Your last line ties it up perfectly. Sending love your way.
Cara, that quote is comforting, and it speaks to the poem you wanted to write about the students you have lost. So many truths in your poem, like:
And the “strange ephemeral veil is in the / way of seeing those lost far too young.” And their very lives were ephemeral. I’m sad for those losses you’ve had at school over the last 27 years. It shouldn’t be, should it?
Did you read Breanna’s poem, right above yours?
I’m sorry your number is large. Though one is too many. There is a certain kind of memory I hold for students lost. They are certainly ones whose names I remember. No run ins at a restaurant as I blankly search for a name hoping it doesn’t show. The remembering is all we have.
Denise, what a lovely invitation to process the inescapable.
Poetic Therapy
Never thought so much about Death
Til I brought life into the world.
Suddenly, I see him everywhere.
O, Death.
Won’tcha spare me over til another year
I plead.
Won’tcha spare them over til another year.
I pray.
You ever see that TV show
1,000 Ways to Die?
Wish I never did.
Wish I didn’t read the news.
Wish I didn’t have this compulsion to see and know.
“Please don’t take my sunshine(s) away.”
I pray before every bedtime kiss.
I sing life and envision protection spells
Worthy of Lily Potter over my babies.
Silly, I know.
Honestly,
Maybe therapy would
Help me to keep on the sunny side
And be present
And walk in life
Without always being on the
Lookout for Death
As we all figure out what to do
With our one wild and
Wonderous life
No matter how
Short
It is.
Chea, you’ve captured the joy and fear that is parenting. Hope you stay on the sunny side!
Chea, what a truth you capture here. The line “silly, I know” is not so silly. The earlier stanza that opens with three separate “Wish” lines captures so clearly how we parents walk in the world. Thanks for putting this feeling into words.
We must be soul sisters, Chea. This is me. Never thought about death much till I had babies. The “compulsion to see and know,” wishing for “protection spells / Worthy of Lily Potter.” Parenting is hard!! Everything feels so fragile. Hang in there <3
(Also love the way you wove lyrics throughout – and your ending. Well written!!)
Ah, yes, Chea, parenthood brings a whole new perspective to life, death, and the incredible protectiveness we feel toward our children. Your poem really resonated with me.
Oh WOW, Chea! I feel/know your poem in so many ways. The first time I took an airplane trip with my baby I was overcome with dread/fear: how could I put her in such peril!? Clearly, I “Never thought so much about Death
Til I brought life into the world.”
You also made me think of Albert Hammond’s song “I Don’t Wanna Die in An Air Disaster” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JyXBINCv0CI.
“And I just want to go on and on.”
Chea, your poem resonates with me oh so much. I don’t think I ever thought about death when my children where younger, but I have a teenager who likes to be out and about. Thank you for capturing my feelings so well with your words.
Oh, Chea, beautiful. That introductory couplet is spot on.
“Please don’t take my sunshine(s) away.”
I hope your writing this was some Poetic Therapy for you. Those last two stanzas are full of wisdom and beauty. Maybe therapy would help, if you need it. But maybe you just gave yourself some beautiful therapy in the writing of this advice: “be present” “walk in life” “figure out…our one wild and wonderous life / No matter how short it is.” Oh, my goodness. That is just glorious.
Have you heard Brené Brown talk about “foreboding joy?” This poem feels like the pain of foreboding joy to me. It’s opposite? Gratitude.
Denise, your prompt, your exemplar poems, and your poem are amazing. I love the Nikki Giovanni poem–it’s one of my favorites!
When Death Calls…
Look man,
I got shit to do.
So you can go ahead
and have a seat.
And leave that stick
with the scimitar thingie
on the porch–
Don’t bring that thing in here.
I know that one day
me and you are gonna
have to take a walk,
but this is not that day.
I have unfinished business,
and I didn’t lose all that weight
for you to show up now.
I didn’t start eating kale for this.
And I get it, you don’t get to
choose when and how and all that;
But I have a beautiful wife that
needs one last kiss,
and these kids still got some
learning to do.
So lemme grab you a drink,
make yourself comfortable,
and here’s something for you
to read while you wait,
it’s called Infinite Jest–I hear it’s great!
And when you’re finished, we can talk.
But gimme a minute cuz
I still got shit to do.
Dave, I love this: the tone, the voice, the humor! So, good! My favorite line is the (seemingly) off-handed comment “It’s called Infinite Jest — I hear it’s great!” So, funny. It’ll take Death quite a while to finish it, so he’ll be preoccupied for a while!
Dave! I love every word of this so much and the attitude here is one I wish I had. I came into this space somber and you lifted me to a different place. Can’t tell ya how much I appreciate that.
This is great, Dave. I love how you’ve raken charge here. Side note- I hated every minute of Infinite Jest. A good friend was convinced I would love it and forced me to read it. Oh well!
Dave, I love the conversational tone of this–it makes death a little more human and a little less scary. My favorite line:
Yes, this is just great. I love the tone you took, sometimes the best way to face the inevitability of death is with humor. My favorite part is: “But I have a beautiful wife that / needs one last kiss, / and these kids still got some / learning to do.”
What a fun poem, Dave! I smiled my way through it, and am 100% with you, “gimme a minute cuz!”
scimitar thingie
I didn’t lose all that weight
I have a beautiful wife that
needs one last kiss
here’s something for you
to read while you wait,
it’s called Infinite Jest
———
Wow. Just wow. I loved this poem on so many levels:
1) your VOICE
2) your LAST KISS
3) Infinite Jest!
I look forward to reading your emerging poems.
Dave, there is so very much to love here! Wow, what marvelous fun you had putting that Death character off.
“have a seat…this is not that day” and “I didn’t lose all that weight
for you to show up now.” And kale!! and Infinite Jest for Death to read will take a good long time. The shout out to your wife and kids is precious.
Your voice is so powerful and fun throughout the poem. Well done. It makes me want to read more of your poems. Here’s to a long life of writing poetry and getting your shit done.
Dave,
Love the macabre humor and the bookending of the poem w/ “I still got shot to do. Funniest line: “and here’s something for you / to read while you wait, / it’s called Infinite Jest–I hear it’s great!” That’ll take death a long time to finish, so we’ll played, you. LOL!
Denise–this was certainly a challenge on this last weekday of spring break (and first day back home). So, as I often do, I turned to nature for inspiration. The form is an etheree.
Cliffs
Erode
Fail daily
Crumbling downhill
Everything tumbling
Into a pile below
Erosion meet gravity
Cliff death creates new habitat
Algae covers what was once a road
In nature, death offers new beginnings
You can find my full post with images here: https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2023/04/07/cliffs-npm23-day-7/
Kim, I enjoyed seeing your pictures on your blog. I like that it is a death to life poem. You are right about those multimillion dollar homes that are so susceptible on the coast.
Love: “Erosion meet gravity”
And then those last three lines surprise us with the life that comes from the erosion:
I never thought of that before, and I like it, really, that nature doesn’t think twice about whether those homes are in the way.
I love the shift in perspective as this poem proceeds, Kim. Truly “in nature, death offers new beginnings!”
I like the geological metaphor. From one thing another is created. I like being reminded that we are part of something greater.
Death
1 Light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine.
2 And life will continue —
but only within you.
3 These hearts were woven of human joys and cares.
4 There are dreams that cannot die.
5 This is the place it happened. It was here.
6 Death would be fine, if I only died once.
7 Look for me not when gusts of winter blow …
but when, in June, the pines are whispering low.
Jennifer Kowaczek April 2023
Denise, thank you for today’s prompt. Your poem is perfection — I love the Golden Shovel form. I have wanted to write a cento poem for a while now and today’s prompt was a perfect occasion to do so.
I used the Poetry app — powered by Poetry Foundation. The app has a “spin” feature but you can also search. I found Grief as a top level subject and matched that with love, family, life, aging. I numbered my lines for the purpose of citing my sources.
1 “Safe in There Alabaster Chambers” by Emily Dickinson
2 “Solipist” by Troy Jollimore
3 “1914 IV. The Dead” by Rupert Brooke
4 “My Lost Youth” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
5 “The Crossroads” by Joshua Mehigan
6 “No I Wasn’t Meant to Love & Be Loved” by Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib
7 “If Spirits Walk” by Sophie Jewett
Correction for #1: “Safe in Their Alabaster Chambers” by Emily Dickinson.
Jennifer! I love the structure and approach you used for this poem. It feels like it was always meant to be. I’m definitely going to have to try this out. Thanks so much for sharing!
Jennifer, I like how your poem begins and ends with the movement of air, which gives a sense of movement throughout the poem. Thank you for introducing me to the Poetry app! I’ll definitely give it a whirl.
Rules for My Funeral
By Mo Daley 4/7/23
#1 Drinks and laughs
not
wails and tears
#2 Say only truths, i.e.
she exercised lazily
she cared deeply
she wrote sporadically
she spoke sharply
she read voraciously
she loved fiercely
she lived admirably
#3 Keep my stories alive
Love these rules to live by and die by. Wonderful poem that keeps things in perspective!
Oh, Mo, what a great poem! That’s going to make us want to try that form too! Hooray for #1. I would love laughs at my funeral. “She lived admirably,” indeed!
Mo,
This is awesome! Leave instructions to have this displayed at your funeral!
Mo,
This was a perfect way to approach the prompt. I wish I would have thought of it.
Jennifer
Mo,
YES!!! 1000% yes. I
Mo, you make me want to write my rules too. Numbers 1 and 3 are my absolute favorites. Thank you for sharing!
Love this approach to death in a poem! Keep my stories alive indeed! I also love that there are only 3 rules–no excuse for forgetting any of them.
Ditto, Mo. And, like you, none of us want folks to have to read our poems to know how we’d like to be remembered. But, just in case, most here believe the truth of your poem. Thanks for sharing so many of those attributes with us.
Mo, I love the rules (and your i.e.s — my favorite being “she exercised lazily,” lol). Thanks for this!
Love this. I may have to borrow, or at least create one for my funeral.
Mo, I love the idea of writing one’s own obit in poetry. This is an exemplar. Your #3 expresses the archetypal desire: to live on. Beautiful.
These are the rules that I would want too! I love the 2nd stanza and the descriptive adverbs, but “keep my stories alive” is such a poignant ending.
Denise, what a prompt to be writing when one is a Christian and it’s Good Friday. Especially when one of Christ’s last commands was to take up His cross and follow Him. No, I’m not fussing about your prompt, but sorta thanking you for evoking the thoughts of what that would mean if it meant dying … right now on Good Friday, 2023.
I’m Not Answering Now
Death, you may be knocking at my door
But I’m not answering
You came early to get my son,
But I’m confident that he is fine without me
He’s with his great grandparents
I’m sure they’re either in heaven already
Or awaiting the return of the Messiah.
Death, you may be knocking at my door
But I’m not answering
I watched my mother slip into your arms
But she’d been ill and welcomed your embrace.
Now for the best, she’s at rest.
Death, you may be knocking at my door
But I’m not answering
I got a dear husband, a son and daughter
I’m avoiding the skids, being careful not to leave too soon
But, when I must, I’ll be ready
I’ve heard so much about heaven.
But, I’m not eager for that now. No, not at all
So, don’t feel bad when I don’t answer your next call.
Anna, amen. I love the refrain:
It sounds like a preacher.
The first stanza about your son who died too young, the second about your mother, and then the last stanza–full of people you love who are still here. Yes, we don’t want to answer too soon. Too much living here left to do. Beautiful.
Well said, Anna! Thanks.
I am with Denise, Anna! Love the repeating lines at the beginning of each stanza. I agree you are needed here more; it’s too early. I can relate to that. Thank you for such a wonderful poem!
This is so good. The honor that you pay to your son and mother and the refusal throughout the stanzas are perfect counterpoints.
Denise,
What a perfect topic for those of us who believe! It is Holy Week!
Death
For those of us who believe,
Death is never the end.
It is the beginning of eternal life.
For those of us who believer,
Death comes for the body.
Spirit and Soul go to be with Christ.
For those of us who believe,
Death signifies LOVE.
Jesus loved/loves us that much.
For those of who believe,
Death isn’t final…
For He is RISEN!
Donnetta, I like your refrain, “For those of us who believe,” Death isn’t final…For He is Risen. a blessed Good Friday and Easter to you.
Donetta, I concur with Denise about belief that death is not final and pleased to have reminder in your poem. Looking forward to,celebrating RESURRECTION SUNDAY,
The golden shovel comes from Brian Doyle’s essay, “Two Hearts,” which I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.
In the Middle
I picked up a card to
write to Grandma, on her
death bed at the hospital
on Easter, thinking of her
all tired, weak and
heart sore —
just penned one side,
as baby crayons the other
I watch her wobbly hand
write scribbles, vibrant with
life, brimming with motion
Rachel, what a good quote. I just took time to find and read Two Hearts. What a well-written touching essay–omg! And your poem is artwork. Truly! Your grandma’s half of the poem, she’s “all tired, weak and heart sore,” then the second half becomes “vibrant with life” about your sweet baby. And you in the middle. Oh, it is just beautiful. Your poem and striking line from Doyle really illustrate this sweet aspect of life and death, like the Murakami quote for me too: “Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it.”
Rachel! The moments you choose and the emotion in them speak so much to my mama heart. My dad’s mama died two weeks before my daughter was born and my Papaw (mom’s dad) died two months before my one-year-old was born. The cycle there has never been lost on me- that they made space for the new two. Adaline loves butterflies and sees them everywhere just like my Grandma Jean, and Jesse looks so much like Papaw sometimes, complete with his ornery eyes and sideways smile. Can’t tell me that’s a coincidence. The juxtaposition in your poem is so powerful and tender and touching. “Vibrant with/life, brimming with motion” is absolute perfection.
So sweet – I love that concept that grandparents passing makes room for the new life. I’ll hold on to that moving forward & look for my grandma in my girls! Thank you for sharing!!
Thank you so much for the share today, Denise. Given the events in Tennessee this week, the Giovanni poem was indeed a “must read,” and I have already shared that as far and wide as I can. Such a glumpy week as it is, but I have no reservations about having a death conversation with us here. Delighted, and offer some rambling thoughts:
They tell us
we start to die
the minute we are born
(for Achaan Chaa
the beautiful goblet
is already broken)
I have died
in so many small ways
throughout my life
(each time
never believing
I could survive)
as a good stoic
I contemplate death
my own and others
(some others more
than the rest
if I’m being honest)
it doesn’t mean
I’m ready
or ever will be
(though some days
if I’m being honest
I feel more ready)
it just means
as Warren Zevon advised
I enjoy every sandwich
This poem speaks to me in almost every way – I can identify with the thoughts and feeling expressed in these verses. Your parenthetical verses are a great touch – I like how they seem to highlight a more nuanced way to think/feel about death. And I cannot help but appreciate any poem that works in a Warren Zevon reference!
Denise, what a lovely conversation about death. I love your parenthetical clarifications. Perfect. This one is my favorite:
Ready or not, “it just means…I enjoy every sandwich.” Wisdom! You always teach me something in your poems!
[I actually had to look up Zevon (and I watched his last interview on Letterman and heard his quote.) Another beautiful reference to Achaan Chaa and the already broken goblet that we enjoy while we are still able.]
This poem is so neat: blunt & honest, while also vulnerable. I love the parenthetical sections. And the ending “I enjoy every sandwich.” Thank you for sharing!!
Yes! It’s so important to enjoy every sandwich!
Denise – thank you for the wonderful prompt today!
I came to visit you at the
assisted living facility
I brought you a vanilla shake
your favorite
but you were asleep
you were sleeping so much then
the surgeries had taken their toll
I tidied up the kitchenette
took out the trash
and put the shake in the freezer
something for later
we had a silent conversation
about the Cubs’ chances at
the World Series
you, forever the optimist,
thought the bullpen looked solid
so naturally this would be the year
naturally
when I cleaned out that cramped
glorified studio apartment
the shake was gone
you never did get to see that final game
and I never did get to see you again
but I personally believe that when you
woke up from your nap
you enjoyed the vanilla shake
and smiled
James, your poem brought tears to my eyes. Thank you for sharing and sorry for your loss. I loved your silent conversation.
This is so touching to me. My mother in law loved shakes and they were all she would have during her last days. Your words create a beautiful smile and memory for me as well as for you.
James,
Thank you for sharing these words. Your poem brought back memories of my grandmother.
James, I love your style in this narrative poem. I like the mystery of not knowing for sure who this is about. I smiled about the silent conversation that took place. It shows how much you knew the sleeper because you know how the conversation would have gone. The placement of “naturally” is a strong segue between life and death here, and it can be read twice on both halves. What a special thought that the vanilla shake was enjoyed with a smile.
Mmm such a tender moment. Your poem describes it beautifully. I loved the silent conversation, and the moment you get to imagine of this person enjoying the vanilla shake. Thanks for sharing this with us.
Hello Denise,
I love the golden shovel idea. I used a quote from Virginia Woolf that made me chuckle. Death is a very heavy lift today, so I wanted to make a lighter load.
“I have lost friends, some by death…
others by sheer inability to cross the street.”
– Virginia Woolf
I am a huge fan of the Darwin Awards;
have you read the 2022 edition? A Russian soldier found a
lost (stolen?) Macbook on the Ukrainian battlefield. His
friends said it was a bad idea to replace his chest armor plate with
some random spoils. Needless to say, his death
by shrapnel was not unexpected. Sometimes
death elicits a chuckle in
others. It’s a shame when another’s demise is caused
by their own
sheer
inability
to make smart choices or to
cross
the
street before looking both ways – instant Karma.
Shaun, well done. The Darwin Awards are funny, and death is not really, but you have captured the dichotomy so well here…”Sometimes / death elicits a chuckle in / others. It’s a shame when someone’s demise…” The Macbook for chest armor does deserve the Darwin award.
And wow, excellent golden shovel there. I had actually forgotten you were using the quote until I had finished the poem. Well done, sharing the load with Virginia Wolff today. I enjoyed your poem.
I frolicked at the Ithaca Festival
Early June, drunk on sunshine
I had a Tarot reading, so unlike me
The man/boy reader said I was in transition
Yes! I am! I’m between jobs and…
Telling my life story
I felt so free and left my phone in my house
While I was out, your daughter texted
That you had endocrine cancer
My mood flipped a switch
From manic to panic
Like an ice shower, sobering
It took its toll quick
Four months later and
I’m reading about our escapades
In front of a crowd
And your turquoise urn
Grief, the close cousin of depression
Unmoored and untethered
Wanting to go back to the Ithaca Festival feeling
Back to the days of our youth
Back to when you were well
Oh, Jennifer, beginning and ending with the joy of the Music Festival, as well as the text message that changed everything, reminds me of the fragility of life. We never know what will happen, what transitions we will be facing.
Some of my favorite images/lines are:
and the details in this scene from her service:
Beautiful poem, Jennifer.
Free verse was the form I chose today. I wasn’t sure what was going to come across the page. I lost my dad, mom and sister by the time I was 39 and there was one person who walked through each of these death visits with me- my husband. So in thinking about death- I wrote about how the thoughts of it have changed over my lifetime.
When we were 18,
I told you I wanted to die first.
I didn’t want to endure the heart-wrenching pain
my mom walked through each and every day
at the loss of her dear love of over 25 years.
In your youth, you gave the innocent promise to out live me.
When we were 24,
walking across the wedding threshold
I reminded you of your promise-
that I would die first.
Again, you simply smiled and said our love would out live us both.
When I was 34,
and my sister lost her valiant fight against cancer,
I learned
I didn’t want to think about who would die first,
I wanted to live each day fully with you,
So off on a hot air balloon bucket list ride we flew.
When I turned 50,
my heart was so full
due to your wise words at 18
“don’t let the pain, stop you from feeling the joy of my love”
I want you to leave this world first
so you never have to experience that heart-wrenching pain.
You have filled my life with abundant love and joy
so I want you to leave the world feeling only that – my love.
I too told my husband I needed to die first, because I too did not want to live with that pain. Your poem brought tears to my eyes. You’ve made me rethink being the first to die. I know our love will live on, just like yours. Thank you for sharing.
Oh, Cathy, so much beauty here. What a wonderful take on this prompt. Your sister, I believe, would be pleased that you chose to live fully: “So off on a hot air balloon bucket list ride we flew.” Beautiful!
The wisdom of your young husband who said your “love would out live us both.” Amazing. And then the switch at the end on your wish for who outlives the other is poignant and selfless.
Thank you for pointing out the beauty in the poem. I didn’t notice that part of it while writing.
Cathy, this is the exact ‘flip’ I experienced in my death-talks with my husband. As we’ve grown older, I understand better the burden of being alone, and he would suck at it! : ) I’m not sure any of us who have loved are great at losing our dearest ones, but I want nothing more than for him to go knowing he was loved and cared for to the end. What better gift could we give? I am sorry for the loss of your sister, but what a treasure of love she bestowed. We accept with grace. Thank you so much for this beautiful rendering.
It is good to know that I am not the only one who thinks about who should go first.
Well, if you don’t know Jason Isbell’s song “If We Were Vampires,” check it out. With a box of tissues.
Thank you for today’s prompt, Denise! The subject of death is so abundantly present in poetry. When I was just reading your inspiration this morning, I immediately thought about a golden shovel poetry form to adopt for this exploration. Then I saw your beautiful tribute to Mukarami. Here is my golden shovel:
Because I couldn’t stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me
E. Dickinson
Because Death doesn’t often warn,
I expect its un/timely arrival that at least
Couldn’t be blamed on a stupid accident. I
stop being afraid and think of what-ifs
for there is one life-time on Earth.
Death is inevitable and certain.
He doesn’t spare wealthy, young, or important
kindly reminding we’ll all cross over,
stopped in our tracks to experience new,
for earthly isn’t the only form of existence, and
me thinks it’s true.
The last 2 lines change in feeling and offer hope in death – “for earthly isn’t the only form of existence, and me think its true.” I so agree with your ending.
Love your message in this poem, Leilya, Yes, death is inevitable, but I love your line: “for earthly isn’t the only form of existence…” I am continually in awe when feeling the presence of spirits. Beautiful poem.
So much to ponder in your poem mediation, Leilya. Noticing the proper noun in Death and Earth makes concrete an abstract that somehow brings comfort in possibilities.
Sarah
Leilya, oh want a wonderful golden shovel striking line. That is such a rich and memorable poem.
What a wonderful thing it is to be stopped in your tracks. And this one is a beautiful thing to know:
“stopped in our tracks to experience new
for earthly isn’t the only form of existence,” Amen!
Your last line made me smile!
I love your use of Dickinson’s poem (my favorite be her – and one of my favorite pieces generally speaking). The line “kindly reminding we’ll all cross over” has been stuck in my head – it’s almost a paradox, the notion that death/Death could be at all kind. I enjoy how you weave this idea so seamlessly into your poem.
Denise, thank you for today’s prompt. I wanted to do a Golden Shovel today, so I looked up some older poems about death. I forgot how may Poe poems where about death. I didn’t choose one of his. However once I picked my phrase I thought Senryu might be fun as well. I managed to come up with something passable, but decided there wasn’t enough even with two stanza, so went straight Golden Shovel. I’ve chosen “Do Not Stand By My Grave And Weep” by Clare Harner.
Do continue to live when I’m gone
Not wallowing in sorrow, my spirit will live on
Stand strong our kids will need you, and you them
By your side I’ve known so much love
My heart will carry that love long after we are both gone
Grave is for those left behind
And when you visit remember I’m not there
Weep if you must, but only with joy at the memories we’ve made
DeAnna, that’s right, Poe did write a lot of death poems.
“Stand strong our kids will need you” 🙁 Your golden shovel is sad and so strong. And I like the end, that weeping is okay, but let it be about the joyful memories.
DeAnna, wow, what a perfect message. All the details show the importance of wanting one’s life partner to be able to carry on after losing a partner. I was so impressed with your last line: “Weep if you must, but only with joy at the memories we’ve made”. Oommph! What an amazing final message.
DeAnna,
I am struck by how many poems about death of which I am familiar. How I know these are from school. So much time spent on war poems and death poems that I realize the canon does not offer much by way of joy. That is the side note. I turn to your beautiful message to the implied you, a parent to “our kids”, and urge to “joy at the memories.”
Sarah
DeAnna, I love the line you chose from Harper. This is what I also want to tell my children. The last line is hopeful and uplifting. Thank you for sharing your words and thoughts today.
DeAnna,
Oh, this is just wonderfully lovely. You really echoed the words of your Golden Shovel beautifully. Such a beautiful message and so poignantly done. 💜
DeAnna, such loving reminders about the presence of loved ones after they’ve gone. I’ve never been one for visiting graveyards for this exact reason:
I love the strike line for your Golden Shovel too!
DeAnna, I really enjoyed this poem today because of that last line reminding us that the celebration of a life well lived is critical. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you for this prompt today Denise. It has really hit home with what April has brought to me. Being Good Friday I chose I chose 1st Corinthians 15:55 as my inspiration.
Oh, mortality you have opened my eyes!
Death is a shadow without fear.
Where I go hope is with me.
Is there not perception of joy and blessing?
Thy presence has brought awareness,
a sting yet lifting me up.
Susan,
I’ve enjoyed what you’ve done with your 1st Corinthians Golden Shovel. I need to remember hope does go everywhere with me. Thanks for that reminder.
Susan, what a strong striking line, and it even becomes stronger with what you have been through this month. “Death is a shadow without fear.” and that surprising, joyful even, conquering final line: “a sting yet lifting me up.” Peace and condolences to you, sister.
Thank you so much, Denise!
Denise, thank you for this surprise of a prompt – I appreciate that you put ‘death’ front and center for us to explore, death being so natural yet so avoided as a topic of discussion by most/many. You’ve made me wonder if ‘death’ is one of the most frequent subjects of my own poetry…I feel as if I wrestle with this topic a lot.
as do we
yesterday I tried to write
a sijo about death
let’s try again
with open verse
how the maple tree is languishing
we stress over its stress
wondering what number its days
think about it
its dying
it is dying
in fact, it’s dying – as in,
it possesses dying,
it holds dying
as do we
yet
the woodpecker
delights
sometimes it simply churrs
before eating the larvae insect feast
no need to drum or tap this time
only slurp
the bounty of grubs
the maple readies for death
by overflowing
for others
as do we?
Oh, wow, Maureen, your sijo yesterday and this poem today are both beautiful images of the languishing maple in your yard. I’m sorry its days are numbered. You were able to add so much more here with the open verse, and your title and repeated title as the last line with an added question mark is provocative and makes me want to discuss it. It seems a powerful Good Friday image, this sacrificial maple tree: “readies for death / by overflowing / for others” Wow! Amazing.
Do we?
Maureen,
I love how you mingle a maple tree’s life cycle with ours. The refrain of “as do we” after descriptions of a maple’s dying is so powerful. This stanza is so thought-provoking and clever:
Beautiful imagery with the colors of the maple tree and the woodpecker delighting in the grubs. I also love your message of giving. I question if the tree is really dying or just sleeping before Spring renewal?
Maureen,
Your poem evokes so many connections for me, beginning w/ Shakespeare: “Tis true all that lives must die.” The ending lines
“the maple readies for death
by overflowing
for others”
has me thinking about Emily Dickinson, who so often wrote about death, and wrote:
“I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable -”
I really like the grammar exploration: it is, its, it’s. These echo the myriad ways we explore today’s topic.
Oh, Maureen, your poem’s final question is so provocative! I love how you tie the maple tree’s death to this universal question. The action and imagery in this is so compelling! Wonderful, deeply moving poem!
Thank you for your wonderful and sad poem about languishing maple tree. Today with a free verse, you created such a rich imagery and melody. I can “see” the woodpecker slurping “the bounty of grubs.” The final lines are profound and beautiful.
Maureen,
I was honored to encounter the maple, maybe your maple in this way of overflowing for others as it “readies for death”. The woodpecker and insect feast, and “bounty of grubs.” — all this so generous and, well, useful. Has me pondering….
Sarah
Denise, like many here, today is a day carved from all others and even without the prompt, I’d be contemplating death. I like to think of death as the opening to life, but most days, like you I “wonder of what and when…” Today I wonder what I might have written if I did not wake up so enraged at what transpired in Tennessee (see Glenda’s OBIT below)… but last night did happen and has been happening and this is what came out…
Death is always lurking
but hides so much
the agony—
the betrayal—
the cloak—
the crown—
the stumbling—
the vinegar and gall—
finally, surrender—
Darkness.
Rumbling.
An opening of the earth
that swallows death whole.
But, agony in the fields,
betrayal in the chamber.
Cloaked in blindness,
crowned in lies,
stumbling in pride,
they do not hear
the rumble
of believers
in the dream.
Wake up! The earth is opening
and will swallow your hatred whole.
Ann, I had an immediate chill down my neck at your provocative words, a chill of hope – may this be the rumble that swallows this hatred whole. There is a fabulous percussive beat to this lines,
a rumble ignored at their peril.
Yes, indeed, Ann. A timely poem with Good Friday allusions–that stanza:
sends me reeling. Thank you for writing about Tennessee today. And as Glenda mentioned, voters can vote instead of send flowers to this funeral for democracy.
Poems out of passion, like yours here, really come alive.
Ann,
The parallel you create between the big happenings to Jesus and then shift us to a different meaning.
We need to wake up for sure!
Ann, your word choice is rich with sharp, active words. I love how your poem progresses to that final raw end! Powerful poem!
Ann, such mighty imagery on power, injustice, and death. First the Crucifixion scene reflected in your opening lines (also reflected in the weather here, a dark, thunder-storming day). Then as your lines transition, a prophetic warning linking abuses of power with death and hatred until the earth swallows both of these whole…leaving me thinking how only then can there be peace, and until then, agony in the fields. Glorious word-weaving; I am awed!
Hot Take
William Shakespeare’s Hamlet
is (one of) the greatest plays
ever written (in the English
language).
There.
I said it.
(And I know that I used
enough parenthetical
qualifiers so this isn’t
the “Hot Take” it was
meant to be because
even the die-hard
haters would have
to agree,
I just wanted to make it
clear that I will continue
to teach this play year
after year after year
because I love it,
my students love it,
and it’s just so
wonderful on many
many levels
but, man, oh man,
this persistent and
pernicious malaise
that permeates
Every. Single. Thing.
has made this a
different and more
difficult play each
and every year.)
____________________________________________
Denise, thank you for hosting today and for having us spend some time with this difficult topic! My “end product” is less explicit than I’d (perhaps) like in terms of “the ask” of your prompt – believe me, there were previous drafts that had snatches of the “To Be or Not to Be” soliloquy, statistics on suicide rates (in 2020 there was “about one death every 11 minutes”), the continual uptick in gun violence and mass shootings in schools, the absolute batsh!t craziness of our political “institution” and the unhinging and active dismantling of our democracy by the actions (and tweets) of politicians – but I still have a pile of essays to grade this weekend so (as a draft) it’ll have to suffice for now. 🙂
You deftly, cleverly, incisively hone in on the insanity and horror of these times we are living in. Such a great play to name, understandably more difficult every year.
I am taking a deep cleansing breath.
I admire the repetitious hard sounds of ‘p’ here –
Your words are strong and make me so sad that our times are permeated with death. I am in awe that so few words can say so much!
Scott, oh how I feel “Every. Single. Thing.” of this, along with all you mention in your subsequent response on what could have been within the poem. It feels like a lot to carry. It IS a lot to carry. And sits so well inside the theme of death. You have the ability to synthesize heavy topics into concise verbage in such a powerful way.
Scott, this draft more than suffices, and I do appreciate some of the more explicit parts you outline below that you left out of your poem (for today’s version). It helped me to appreciate the “Every.Single.Thing” that makes teaching Hamlet different now than in the past. I’m so glad there are teachers like you doing the work in schools. Peace and enjoy those essays!
Thank you, Denise! I don’t think I had ever read Rosa Parks by Nikki Giovanni. Wow, that blows me away and gives me something to teach this month. That poem teaches so many lessons! Thank you, again!
You know I love a Golden Shovel and yours is golden indeed! Don’t we all wonder “of what and when it will be” and HOW? I am on this journey with accepting death as something as beautiful as birth. I’m not there yet but I’m getting better at believing our loved ones are more present in death than in life on earth. Your prompt made me think about the day my mom passed, December 28, 2010, and the way she orchestrated her transition. Here’s to you, Mom!
A golden shovel poem from Nikki Giovanni’s poem, Rosa Parks: “I want the world to see what they did to my boy.”
What Your Death Did To My Boy
My sister and I
left your bedside not knowing you’d want
to begin your transition into the
welcoming arms of heaven’s world
you did not desire for us to
witness what you saved for my boy to see
how your body would rid itself what
it no longer needed before they,
the ancestors waiting, would escort you in. You did
all you could to protect us and to
stay alive. It was your time to leave and my
my heart broke for us and more so for my boy.
©Stacey L. Joy, April 7, 2023
Stacey, such a line to use as a golden shovel! Oh my, this is so extraordinary. And, you offer the reverse, a boy witnessing the natural passing of his beloved grandmother – versus Mamie Till’s witnessing the torturous murder of her dear son Emmitt. That juxtaposition makes me tremble. You artfully show the deep pain of your son’s and your loss – that this is ubiquitous when who we love dies. I think, what a gift you gave your mother,
I pray it feels like a gift to your son, now, or in time.
Maureen, thank you. My son learned to embrace her transition as a special gift but it was soooo hard on him at first. My mom and son were as connected as he and I because he was the first grandbaby. I still get chills thinking that she really waited for my sister and me to leave before dying. About 30 minutes after my stepfather left, my sister and I left. Then it all began…
💔
Stacey,
Like you, I love Nikki Giovanni’s poem. I wish I could teach it. I think I’ll pass it on to some former colleagues in hopes they’ll share it w/ students. And your brilliant Golden Shovel poem honors both your mom and the ancestors Giovanni honors in her words. I love the way your poem is an echo and a eulogy and an amazing piece of writing. Stunning title, too. My own children never knew my father, their grandfather. Recently, my youngest son talked to me about how that absence has impacted his life, as has your son has felt the absence of your mom.
Stacey, I’m so glad you have Nikki’s treasure of a poem for you and your students this month. The line you chose for your striking line is so poignant and frightful. Mamie Till was a brave woman.
I love what you said in your notes: “I am on this journey with accepting death as something as beautiful as birth. I’m not there yet but…” I want to live my remaining days like this, and as Maureen said in her poem today: “by overflowing / for others”
One of my favorite lines in your poem today is your mom transitioning into the “welcoming arms of heaven’s world” That is such a beautiful image. I wonder how old your precious boy was when she died.
Thanks so much for your inspiration today! My son was 22 when she passed. 😥
Oh, they had such a wonderful long relationship. I’m so sorry.
Stacey, your poem makes my heart ache. Wanting to protect our children’s hearts comes across so beautifully in your golden shovel poem. Hugs!
Stacey, this is perspective from the person dying gives me understanding about the meaning of death, how the body is tired, and waiting to be with family in heaven. Very profound! Yes, those left behind have broken hearts but the time is short until we are joined again.
Oh, Denise, I’m not sure if you purposely had us reflect on death Good Friday, but it’s all that I can think of. I do plan to revisit this thought-provoking prompt when I can ponder it in different ways.
Good Friday
“It is finished.”
In allowing it to be finished,
it really all began.
With His death,
He unselfishly gave us eternal life
with the horrific sacrifice of his own.
On this day, we are reminded
of the agony, the scourging, the crowning,
the unbearable weight, and the crucifixion.
I feel deep gratitude for this gift
and profound guilt for my sins,
deep shame for not staying clean.
Every Good Friday, I venerate the cross
and sit in the pew and sob
as the same deep, resonant voice emotionally sings:
“Does He still feel the nails
every time I fail?
Can he hear the crowd cry ‘Crucify’ again?
Am I causing Him pain?
Then I know I’ve got to change
I just can’t bear the thought of hurting Him.”
I pray I carry the emotions I feel
out of Precious Blood Church and into the world
living in that stops me from holding the hammer
to pound the nails.
~Susan Ahlbrand
7 April 2023
Susan, I must admit when I picked the day and wrote the prompt (times marked by many months between), I did not consider Good Friday. A serendipitous connection, though. I understand how it’s hard to think of any other death today. Your poem is powerful. I appreciate the “it is finished” just being the beginning. That is truth! And your conclusion of “stops me from holding the hammer / to pound the nails” reminds me of shouting “Crucify him!” at the Maundy Thursday service. His death would have happened no matter where/when Jesus came into the world.
When you write “Does He still feel the nails/every time I fail?”, it really brought out that sacrifice, and it made me reflect on it in a whole new way.
Susan, I am preparing to leave for Good Friday service and reading your poem touches my heart. I am sitting next to you sobbing. “It is finished” is a profound way to begin your reflection.
It is deeply moving to have this prompt on Good Friday. Your opening words “It is finished” – such a powerful start to your poem.
Denise, thank you for your thoughtful prompt today. Good Friday seems to be an appropriate moment to consider death. I appreciate how your poem asks that personal question about when it will occur.
The Last Breath
death is unapologetic
knocking at midnight
delivering unforgiving fatal news
flashing blue lights
illuminating roadside kill
the forever letting go
moving on without empathy—
flowers fetal-curled
Barb Edler
7 April 2023
Barb,
Beginning and ending w/ one line reinforces the singularity of death as the paired lines offer a visual of how we go through life with others. The personification of death as “knocking at midnight” echoes many literary works; it’s an fitting archetype The economy of language, coupled w/ sparse images of flashing blue lights and flowers turned in on themselves in a dying pose, is exquisite. Of course, I cannot read this poem w/out acknowledging the grief that informs it. Hugs and peace to you, my friend.
Oh, Barb, the details here cast a grisly shadow on this tragic and untimely death. “flashing blue lights / illuminating roadside kill” and “flowers fetal-curled” take my breath away. Peace to you in “the forever letting go.”
“flowers fetal-curled” is such a strong image. Your poem is filled with word choice that touches the heart of the matter. And your title…
So few words, Barb, and yet so deeply moving and heartbreaking – a whole story, in such raw, pure form. How that knock at midnight must have eviscerated you/all. That last line, “flowers fetal-curled,” leaves me weeping.
Barb,
Your poem moved me today. I don’t even have words to express the why or how of it. Thank you for sharing today.
“Flowers fetal-curled” is a powerful line, and such a great conclusion to your poem. I think it speaks to the enduring sadness of death, and the difficulty of coping. Thank you for sharing.
Barb, every time I read your poem, I am in awe of how skilfully you choose the right words. ”Death is unapologetic” says it all. Thank you for this gift of a poem!
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
what you will say about me,
what they will remember about that,
what those three will gossip about one
time when.
I don’t want to wonder if
all those abouts diverge
contradict, perplex
before it was over
of who I tried to be
of the life I tried to live
of what I was to you, they
those three.
When it’s over,
I don’t want to wonder,
so in the today’s I have
I will introduce you to
they and those three
so that ya’ll can figure
it out.
Oooh, Sarah! A little bit of shade within the darkness of death today, which adds a little bit of light to the theme. Thank you for saying it as it needs to be said. Cuz, ain’t it the truth? I can only feel the rest that needs to come with death. And boy, life is sure fatiguing.
Sarah, your poem is compelling and provocative. I was deeply moved by your second stanza because not matter how hard we try in life; it is often not enough for someone else. Your poem invites me to sit and ponder. Wondering about the three, the possible allusion.
Sarah,
Your poem nails my own thoughts about death and the way we grieve and the chatter that follows and all the “When it’s over” detritus left behind. I don’t want the mythologizing “when it’s over.” I don’t want the platitudes from those who decide to crawl out of the woodwork at that tolling bell moment. I like the ambiguity in not naming the three as we all, perhaps, have our three. And I don’t think you’ll need to worry “when it’s over.”
Sarah, like Jennifer, I appreciate the levity at the end–“so in the today’s I have…so that ya’ll can figure it out.” The designations of you, they and especially those three are provocative, effective, and very powerful.
Sarah, your final stanza made me smile. Thank you for brining some lightness to this sad topic! Your poem reminded me of a traditional Crimean Tatar funeral during which the molla (imam) asks all those who present to forgive the deceased in case they hurt someone with a word or action. After that, everyone repeats in chorus that the deceased was a good human and will be remembered as such. It is a very moving ceremony. This would stop “those three” from any potential gossip.
Leilya
Thank you for this prompt, Denise. A dear friend, former colleague of mine died three days ago, so I have written the last two posts about her. Today, I’m find myself not done. I added to the poem I wrote – a work and life in progress.
Dear Rose Ann
Rose Ann, you came into
my classroom each morning
with a smile and a sing-song greeting
That my students would sing back.
Rose Ann, you wrote little notes
to your teachers on pink parchment
telling them that you noticed, that you cared,
such an everlasting gift.
Rose Ann, you lifted this new teacher up,
showed her the way with humor, with heart
Walked alongside her and called her a friend,
You wanted to be called princiPAL, and you were!
Rose Ann, you certainly were,
And you certainly will be missed.
Your life with children and teachers
was a blessing; you’ll remain in our hearts.
Rose Ann, you loved decorating for holidays.
Every Christmas, I would give you an angel
And you would treasure it and hang it on your tree.
Now, I imagine you in the arm of golden angels.
Oh, Joanne, Ruth Ann is a treasure–PrinciPAL, sing-song greeting, wrote little notes–and for you, a new teacher. What an extra-special gift. Your last stanza surprised me at first, and then the last line imagining her being held by angels is precious. Peace to you and all who loved her.
Sorry, Joanne. Rose Ann. What a beautiful name.
Beautiful poem to commemorate Rose Ann’s lovely spirit. Deeply moving poem!
Joanne,
My first year teaching my department head (Ruth Stohl) spoke about a colleague as “a teacher’s teacher.” I committed that phrasing to memory and recalled it when Ruth died, and remember it now in your poetic eulogy to Rose Ann. She was obviously “a teacher’s teacher” too, an admired mentor, a friend. Thank you for sharing her influence w/ us today. My condolences to you and to all who knew and admired Rose Ann.
Denise, thank you for hosting and for your golden shovel example. Your other examples also remind us of the essence and expanse of death in verse.
I can turn your ashes into diamonds
carry you in a locket
visit you in your sacred space
write you poetic odes
give you flowers
stare at you on a mantel
love you endlessly
grieve you forever
breathe in your memories
how is it harder on me, this living?
Stefani,
Thank you for this important framing of what one “can” do in the carry, visit, write, give, stare, love, grieve, breath — all this is the how, and, indeed, what one can do is harder on the living. This agency — holding onto it — though, here is a comfort.
Sarah
Stefani, your final question says it all. I love how you show the ways that we try to treasure and remember our loved ones. Powerful poem!
Stefani, this form is very effective. “I can turn your ashes in diamonds” but you aren’t there. All the many things you can do “carry you”, “visit you,” “write you” and so much more. You have captured the essence of mourning and even its futility. The wording of your last line is perfect ending with “this living”
Stefani,
In “The Man with the Broken Fingers” Carl Sandburg writes, “And death is a quiet step into a sweet clean midnight.” Do you know this poem about the Holocaust? It’s one of my favorites and reminds me of the release from pain and suffering death often brings, and like your poem, it reminds me of what we can and cannot do as both the living and the dead. Like Sarah, I’m concentrating on the list of can dos that still leave emptiness, that make living “harder on me.”
I’m not sure how to put into words what your poem made me feel. It just really hit my heart with that last line- “how is it harder on me, this living?” The living after loss is so hard. Thank you for acknowledging that.
Stefani,
I can’t even find the words to express how profoundly these words hit me. The list of such specific images that one can do in the wake of death followed culminated with that question. Wow.
Stefani, thank you for your poem! The final line got me: “how is it harder on me, this living?” Maybe, we have to remind ourselves that those who left us are in a better place,
Oh, my heart…I struggled with this one today. Here in Colorado, which has the dubious distinction of leading the nation in the number of mass shootings per capita, East High School in Denver has seen two deadly shootings in the last six weeks. I was reading news stories about student protestors at the Capital, and one student said that one of his teachers had a tally on his board of how many days had passed since the first shooting.
The Great Disruptor
The tally marks on the board
numbered only nine–not even
double digits.
Nine days had passed–nine days
of (relative) safety and (uneasy) peace
Nine days…what number will the tally marks reach
next time?
Julie, when I was a child, in the heart of town there was a big sign with a working red/green traffic light alongside these words: “____ days since the last traffic fatality! Keep the green burning.” I had trouble understanding it. First, what is a fatality? Then, why can’t people drive so there aren’t any? And why is “keeping the green burning” good? I began to worry about the sign’s red light coming on. In those days, we couldn’t conceive of what we are living with now. Those tally marks on the teacher’s board representing days since the last horror; your beautiful state ranking first in the heinous acts; that these shootings are happening at all, anywhere, everywhere. I cannot help thinking of a quote with variations attributed to a number of people from JFK to Walt Disney to Christopher Dodd, that our greatest and most precious resource is our children. What will it take to protect them, now?Where and how will this end? What is the hope for the future?? If we are to keep THAT green light burning…and these tally marks going on and on until we have more than relative safety and uneasy peace…there’s got to be hard stops now before we completely implode. Your intro and your poem hit home – oh, my heart, too – and oh, our nows, and our tomorrows…
Julie, thank you so much for providing your iintroductory note about your poem. What a chilling reminder of how awful these gun shootings are. I was completely moved by your lines: “Nine days had passed–nine days
of (relative) safety and (uneasy) peace”. Powerful poem!
Julie, I’m so sad about this. I’ve just been on a rabbit hole dig of shooting death statistics. It is horrific and unnatural what we have allowed to become common. What an unsettling set of tally marks on the board. Your question to end it lacks hope, as does the situation. I pray we will do something.
Death sits across from me
Gritty bones holding cards
Staring across the table
As I lay down my chips
Time to ante up
What risk will this be?
A friend to my left
Folded.
Out of the game.
Ashely, this is incredible imagery – I see Death’s skeletal hands and permanent skull-grin; I feel the intensity of the game and the flip incongruity of “what risk will this be?” The friend, folded and out of the game – unspeakable loss. You make me marvel and mourn at the same time.
Wow, Ashley, this is such a striking poem. I love the poker metaphor. Brilliant!
Wow, poker as a powerful metaphor for death. “Gritty bones” is a stark and rich description. The friend “folded, out of the game” is also so poignant. Well done, Ashley.
Ashley,
You paint a strong image of life being played as a poker hand. Thank you for sharing.
Ashley,
This is one of those poems that I envy . . . I wish I had the cleverness and succinctness to create something this focused. To place death within a poker game is so perfect.
Denise,
Wow, did you pick two powerful poems to introduce us to today — thank you for that. I thought that your poem was beautiful and fitting for Good Friday. I’m on Spring Break this week and am feeling the peace of it today. I wrote a “cascade poem,” in which each line of the first stanza comprises the last lines of the subsequent stanzas.
Shadows ebb and flow
On the hill across the road
As clouds drift by, above
The world turns slowly, today.
I sit on my couch,
A lotus flower
And savor these days.
Shadows ebb and flow.
My daughter sleeps peacefully
In her soft, pink bed
Dog chews his marrow bone, as
On the hill across the road,
Geese march, heads bent,
Look for food, back for spring.
Birds wake the morning
As clouds drift by, above.
Death and its pall
Seem a distant dream–
(Though I should know better) as
The world turns today, slowly.
Wendy, this is such a beautiful form, with the lulling rhythms of repeated lines. Here you paint us a picture of such peace. Treasured moments, like diamonds glittering in the light…the lotus, symbol of beauty and tranquility, the dog happily chewing his bone… that so reminds me of what Thoreau wrote: “I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.” Thank you for this uplifting poetic reminder today – this pocket of peace away from death and its pall.
Wendy, I love how you approached today’s prompt and am cherishing,
This juxtaposition of chewing, while birds march as they do, and your last two lines….such a delicate dance. Wonderful.
Wendy, your poem is gorgeous. I’ve never heard of a cascade poem before, and I love this format. The imagery in your poem is exquisite. I love the peace, shadows, and the savoring. Beautiful!
Wendy, I hadn’t heard of a cascade poem before; thank you for that. The message in your poem is so peacefully put. Your daughter, dog, and nature scenes are beautiful. It’s how most healthy people live, not thinking about “Death and its pall,” especially when we are younger. I love the repeated: “the world turns today, slowly” Enjoy your spring break!
Good Morning, Denise. Was on the phone late last night, processing. Waking up this morning to this prompt, I’m taking as healing. I didn’t shovel in gold, this morning, but loved the way you did. So often, when teenagers freeze in first-experiences of loss, I tell them, “You just need to write. No need to talk. Just put language to the page so you can learn what’s inside of you. Write for yourself”
Sometimes
(for Shirls)
~b.r.crandall
sometimes ears
defend the mouth,
heeding the cries of
a screaming child –
sister holding a hand
as photographs bloom
above a casket.
crocuses
daffodils.
papers tell the story
in paragraphs –
21-year old buck
boozing with buddies
behind a wheel.
mother of two
needed a few things
down the road.
She was only a few miles away.
Sometimes ears
overpower humor,
a wit to make others laugh.
He’s not doing well.
He doesn’t want to live,
She was everything to him,
Purpose. Meaning.
Ways to forget his past.
All I can see is his face in the hospital,
the first time his father tried.
Their eyes locked and I worried,
like father, like son.
Sometimes ears
don’t understand the music,
when listening to the screams
of a father, a son,
mourning
down the hall,
when all she
needs is to cry,
too.
Bryan, this one reached right into my chest and squeezed my heart tight. And turned on the faucet of my tears. Holy cow. There are days in this group when I read poems and every.single.poet is having a “best poem EVER day,” and this is one of those days. Your repeating line of sometimes ears….defend the mouth, don’t understand the music, overpower humor….makes me think of all the other things sometimes ears do. Poets, I am convinced, do what surgeons and pastors and teachers and friends and family and philosophers cannot do. They do what you did today – – reach in and touch the soul.
Bryan, your lines, “Sometimes ears/don’t understand the music,/when listening to the screams” are beautiful and haunting and all too relatable. I hope you can find solace in the new day today and thank you for writing with us.
Bryan – so powerful. You captured pain perfectly. The images and sounds run deep – right into my heart.
Wow, Bryan. You tell this story–layered stories in stories–in these brilliant fragments, like trying to make sense of the senseless. There’s meaning and heart-wrenching emotion that lurks in all the spaces that you leave and in all of these descriptions.
Bryan, wow, you were processing truth last night, sleeping on it, and it was birthed into these ethereal images of loss, death, fear and processing. As Kim stated so beautifully the ears in this piece are so important. Peace to Shirls.
Bryan,
So dang powerful. The repeat of “sometimes ears” really drives home the various ideas of what we can’t process.
I’m glad that you were able to create this poem today.
Denise – on this Good Friday, I cannot separate death from faith. I recall the pure and sustaining faith of my grandparents, who lost a child (my aunt) on Good Friday and how they took a measure of comfort in that. Her long suffering was over. Mortality is on all of our minds more than ever these days…and oh, your golden shovel is mighty! For all a person’s faith, mortality weighs heavy. The mortal coil, to quote Hamlet: “For in that sleep of death what dreams may come/When we have shuffled off this mortal coil…” Death is inevitable, and your ending lines nail a vital truth: how can we help wondering what and when (and how) it will be? It is human to do so. Yet we are not meant to spend our lives in fear. I began learning this at age nine – am still learning it, long since. Here’s a bit of memoir poem in response (still thinking on a title). Thank you for opening this door with your reflective, beautiful words…
The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning.
—C.S. Lewis, “Farewell to Shadow-Lands,” The Last Battle
I have dreamed
of dying
many times
since age nine
when I was afraid
so afraid
so I prayed
Lord
please help me
not be scared
of dying
that night
in a dream
I died
my grandmother
came to me
smiling
holding out a blanket
helping me link
my fingers
in the crocheted yarn
(she was still living
at the time)
then everything faded
into nothingness
only for a second
until I felt
the wall
materializing
at my side
the warm bed
beneath me
the comforter
wrapped round me
I sat straight up
alive
alive!
marveling
at two things:
dying is
like waking
from a dream
and the Lord
answers prayers
I have dreamed
of dying
many times
since age nine
around the time
the family gathered
for the holidays
and I slept on a cot
listening
to my grandfather
snoring
he is old
he will die
I wanted to cry
so I prayed
Lord
please let
Granddaddy live
a long, long time
he lived to see
both of my children
when he died
I stood stroking his hair
snow-white, so beautiful
against the satin pillow
noting one black strand
as if the reversal
had already begun
so I leaned down
kissed his head
and said
Goodnight, Granddaddy
I’ll see you
in the morning
Fran, you never fail to tell us a story, so beautifully written, that makes me want to fall into it and just keep falling! That you can do this so seemingly easily so early in the day – wow! I’m reminded of my own fear of death and the age with which I recognized that there’s really nothing to fear. I love how you showed the transition from life to death to life, so thoughtfully imaged in the “black strand as if the reversal had already begun.”
Fran, if you have a chance to read Half Moon Summer by Elaine Vickers (MG pubbing 6/6/23 and part NIV), a poem called “Important Enough: Part 1” which I’m reading right now, reminds me of your poem today. They are beautiful side by side.
Fran, there are days I just want to walk through the forest of your thoughts, and today is one of them, especially when you shared of your dream and how we wake up on the other side as if death is like waking from a dream. The reversal of the black strand of hair is so fitting – the transformation symbol of reassurance that brought comfort, peace in a time of grief. But those last words – – I’ll see you in the morning – – are absolutely the greatest faith story of all. The knowing that this life is lived in the blink of an eye, in one breath, one fraction of a second of the infiniteness of eternity. I love how you tell such beautiful stories of your life in all of your poetry. Today is one of those BEST EVER poem days for you, even though there are so many.
Fran,
Repeating “I have dreamed of dying” is a powerful refrain. Knowing a little about your life, I wonder how religion impacts thoughts of death. I’m sure being raised in church and hearing about death every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night prayer meeting, as well as every revival service influenced my own obsession w/ death, as did my father’s death when I was 16. I’m pondering these lines:
“dying is
like waking
from a dream”
and wondering how the idea you expressed in them impacts others, especially so-called Christian’s in state and federal government who do nothing to stop the death of children. And now writing this Calvinism enters my mind. Do they think these students’ deaths are preordained? As always, your words are ethereal and evocative, for me in ways I did not anticipate. I’m praying your words w/ one change:
“Lord
please let
[school children] live
a long, long time”
Wow, Fran, I thought this poem was going to be over after “and the Lord / answers prayers” and I’m so glad it wasn’t!!! Omg, such beautiful moments in here with your grandma helping your fingers crochet and your grandpa able to see your children. Reminds me I have one grandparent left who will maybe see one of mine. Maybe. Thank you for sharing this gem.
Fran, thank you for the intro and for your poem. Your lines, “dying is like waking from a dream” is a lovely sentiment to ponder and reflect upon. Thank you for sharing today.
Fran, this is such a remarkable, beautiful poem. Telling the story of your grandfather is so powerful and exudes faith and hope. The focus of imagery throughout the poem–the one black strand of hair, and the image of you stroking his snow white hair–paints such a vivid picture. Wow! The rhythm and the pacing of this is so perfect too.
This is such a comforting poem, Fran ~ dying is like waking from a dream~ I just love everything about this poem told so simply, so tenderly…the hair snow-white, so beautiful against the satin pillow…thank you for the sweetness of morning!
Fran, thank you for writing this today, and for sharing your heart about death, dreams, and your dear grandparents. One of my favorites is
It reminds me of the C.S. Lewis quote above and other supernatural rejoicing in The Last Battle.
Beauty here, Fran! So powerful! I have a very strong faith, yet death does have a fearful hold on me at times. So, your lines
really give me comfort.
Denise,
Thanks for hosting today. Death is a tough subject but one we cannot ignore given we’re surrounded by it, and it’s not just physical death. I love all the mentor poems, the format suggestions, and your apropos reminder of good Friday and possibility. I think about death often and have since childhood.
Imagine this poem as both left and right justified.
tennessee democracy obit
on wednesday
democracy died
after the tennessee
republican party
voted to remove
life support from
the fledgling
political philosophy.
the decision to
euthanize democracy
came amid requests
to implement life-saving
treatments such as
allowing two “uppity”
black male legislators
to speak before the
legislative body
against weaponizing
the populace with
assault weapons
used to slaughter
children in a recent
Nashville school
shooting in which
six people died.
Democracy’s children
freedom of speech
and assembly were
also killed in the melee.
They’ve been labeled
collateral damage by
the gerrymandered gop.
No services have been
announced for the
deceased. In lieu of
flowers democracy’s
offspring request
mourners vote.
—Glenda Funk
April 7, 2023
*This poem is after Victoria Chang’s collection Obit.
**Members of the Tennessee GOP have called Justin Jones, one of the expelled black legislators, the racial pejorative “uppity.”
Glenda, your chosen form today is masterful. Your reminder to us of all that those who oppose democracy are really about is necessary. Your calling out of the racists and their pejoratives is powerful.
Glenda, I appreciate this reminder that death is not just physical. I think of relationships ending; they, too, are a death. There are many things to grieve and mourn in this life, such as injustices and how people close their eyes and hearts to it. The words “collateral damage” have scoured my soul and sickened me ever since McVeigh and Oklahoma City. Your obit’s ending lines especially are incredibly powerful – we must do better, be better, make it better.
Glenda, your poem resonates so deeply. Ironically, I drove right past the building where this all happened as it happened, about a mile from my passenger side door, to the west of my car in the shadows of what people call the Bat Building (AT&T building looks like Batman) in downtown Nashville. But nobody swooped down from the skies in a cape and saved the day. Your last lines? They are so fitting and so powerfully perfect every day, but especially today.
Glenda, I thought about this topic after reading the prompt and listening to Jones oration last night. You ignite further frustration with the beauty you evoke in your words, form, and pre-notation. I cannot stop pondering your phrase “gerrymandering gop” on a larger scale. Thank you for this today.
Glenda, your poem is brimming with righteous indignation, and I was thinking yesterday how the impending vote to remove those legislators seemed like an execution.
These lines in particular stick with me.
Oh, Glenda, your poem is amazing. I listened to the speeches yesterday by the three Democratic legislators. Then to see that the two black men were expelled of the three seemed like a flashing neon light of white supremacy. My god! And that democracy and our Constitution are dying simultaneously is frightening.
Your ending offers some hope:
I hope you don’t mind, but I posted a full justification version of your poem here. I wanted to see it instead of imagine it, and as soon as I did I realized it was a newspaper column. (I was a little slow, but it was a powerful realization anyway.)
Oh, Glenda, your poem is filled with rife, terrifying truth. I am so impressed about how you packed so many important details about this moment in US history, and the unjustified hate I have been bemoaning is aptly captured through the uppity details and “euthanized democracy.” I love how your language is rhythmic and flows like a lava stream of continual horror that we seem unable to stop. I feel the last two words like a punch in the gut. Fantastic poem. I hope you try to get this published somewhere. It would be a great letter to the editor. Thanks for sharing your poetic wizardry today!
The short form lines show how the anger in you is rising up and rightfully so, and you captured the injustices occurring with such beautiful language and poignant cries.
Glenda, this is the poem I need to read today. Your clever words and phrases assuaged my fury though there is no way to temper assault weapons used to slaughter children. Thanks for this powerful poem —
Thinking of this poem as left and right justified, I see a long tear-soaked ribbon tied around democracy’s funeral flowers. Absolutely sickening, what the Tennessee legislature has done. You are spot on as to their decision to ‘euthanize democracy.’ I appreciate your poem so much!
Glenda,
I woke up to this news this morning and I was and am so appalled. Your obit cleverly captures the essence of the concerns.
Glenda, my phone managed to autocorrect your name to “Iglesia” which feels fitting because I do believe you’ve taken me to church with this one. I’m still dumbfounded that this happened and I appreciate that you spun gold from yesterday’s disgraceful actions.
Denise, first, I can’t not say how much I love that picture of you with your grandchild – love is in every aspect of it. Second, there’s the whole death prompt for Good Friday happening. Third, the movement in your poem, from the “not mighty and dreadful to the fuller metaphors of Paul and finally that “little part of me” ebbs and flows with the words (small to full to small). Thank you for encouraging us to explore this mighty/not mighty topic.
A Thousand Deaths
“Death is not the opposite of life
but a part of it,” you say.
I die a thousand deaths each day.
When news from Nashville reaches me,
another six are added and fall among the
one hundred eleven gunned down daily.
When we see each other in the hall
and your lips tighten into a smile
that disappears before we finish passing,
our only interaction during a long work day,
and I wonder what I ever did.
When a student shares that another pushes her
every morning into her locker because,
“No, Mrs. Jowett,
he’s just mean.”
When another fails to turn in an assignment
day after day after day after…
When an entire class is engaged
except for that one, and the
this-is-so-lame, life-is-lame eye roll
somehow means more than all that other energy.
When the news from Tennessee means
that the voice of the people has been silenced
by the expulsion of democracy and the bi in partisan
becomes bye.
When…
When…
When…
I wonder how we manage to survive
when death is a part of every day.
Jennifer,
Were channeling some of the same energy today. Brilliant: “when the bi in partisan means bye.” And I wonder about the girl pushed into the locker every day. Does admin know? Have teachers advocated for her? What is being done to help her? I’d be all over that.
Glenda, I just learned of the locker situation yesterday and will be addressing it as soon as we’re in school again.
I’m so glad you’ll be advocating for the student.
Jennifer, my gosh! You ROCKED IT OUT OF THE PARK today! The bi and bye, by and by become more and more prevalent in our world, streamlined actions silencing the diversity of thought and freedom and choice. As I read this, I began hearing the way this poem today would be such an amazing spoken word poem, hearing you recite it – – I can hear it in my own head, and I wish others could, too. Can I, like, have your autograph or something? Seriously, this one needs to be heard.
Jennifer – from dying a thousand deaths every day with the news of more people losing their lives, to daily unexplained strained encounters with others, to the inhumane things we humans do to each another – it IS a wonder how we manage to survive with so much death being part of every day. The repeated when, when, when speaks such volumes, standing there, unfinished. And then there’s that one student who’s not engaged when the others are, somehow meaning more than all the (positive) energy…I see it, I feel it, and, so help me – what a metaphor for the whole thing. Your poetry, as always, stirs the soul.
Yep, this is like amazing. I love the “bi” and “bye” and the comparison of the third line with your last. So, so good, Jennifer.
Jennifer, oh, my goodness. In the words of Stacey, I’m giving you a standing ovation today! Where you went with this is so perfect and perfectly horrendous that we have to talk and think like this, and the pursed-lip smiles and eye rolls “somehow mean more…”
Your title and the last couplet are heartbreaking. Wow! Now it’s bye-partisan, in Tennessee, and others will follow suit. Your left unsaid “when…” lines are so painful. Fill in the blanks. And yet, I wonder if they also invite “when…” solutions.
Jennifer,
We teachers are at the intersection of so much of the awful in our society. And our schools hold such promise in trying to help enact change, but it seems so fruitless.
Denise, this Good Friday (I’ve always wondered why it’s called that) is such an appropriate day to pause and think of death. Thank you for hosting us today! Your poem with the striking line from Oliver is so honest – I think we all wonder from time to time your same thoughts. A few years ago I write a Good Friday Rap about the crucifixion and resurrection on Easter. It comes to mind today, but I saw some dead chickens in an odd place in my travels on Wednesday, so those came to mind.
Plummeting Chicken Death
three dead chickens lay
on I-75 South
in North Georgia rain
feathers everywhere
chicken carcasses strewn out
like castoff garments
how did this happen?
there were no farmlands nearby
no livestock, no barns
imagination
kicked into full gear – these hens
(I presumed) died fast
all the better, really
maybe a poultry truck door
swung open, flinging
these ladies groundward
to the hard concrete below
…or maybe they jumped
thought they could still fly
then realized the truth too late
as cars tried to swerve
most not successful
they’re all three dead, either way
these interstate hens
Kim, someone said you were the master of haiku recently and using haiku for extended narrative proves again that truth! I’m reminded of “So much depends upon,” not only because of the chickens (though that alone would do it) but because of the imagery created within each stanza. I suppose it is better to jump to one’s death (with the hope of flying) and have it be by your own choice. Either way…
Kim,
Part of me wants to mourn our eggsellent feathered hens; part of me enjoys the morbidity, the macabre humor, the possible causes of death as the crow flies. Part of me knows the cause of death doesn’t matter since these cackling girls were probably destined for the dinner table or life on a factory farm where other hens would peck at their carcasses. As Jennifer said, you’re the haiku queen, our poetry Pertilote (sp?).
Wow, I can visualize the chickens all over the Highway. I also notice the symbolism in your poem. The highway being our life journey ( in faith), the chickens ( Easter eggs), being pagan beliefs that need to die, so we all May celebrate the true meaning of Easter. The cars swerving are people that are not sure what to do-with the two conflicting religions.3 hens were destroyed by the trinity.No farmland = no manger. Cast off garments – there’s no sacred cloth of Pagans.
the best- “realized truth too late”- there is no truth in bunnies and eggs and they go nowhere but lay on concrete.
just a Boxer interpretation 😀.
loved it
Kim, I’d have been wondering all the same things, my mind grasping at the many possible “hows” of this chicken carnage. Once again: you prove yourself the Queen of Haiku! I read somewhere that poets should find their own syllabic rhythms – this is most definitely one of yours. And your words have me mourning these poor dead creatures, feathers everywhere, lying there in the North Georgia rain. So vivid and pitiful. I am always saddened by the sight of animals killed on the road. Also, I don’t recall your Good Friday Rap; I will absolutely have to check that out!
Fran, Anna Roseboro inspired this one in April 2019. Four years ago this month, as part of VerseLove no doubt. I think it may be the only rap I’ve ever written. Here is the link: https://kimhaynesjohnson.com/2019/04/21/1483/
I love the conversational feel of this story told in haiku. I can imagine you telling a friend about this and I can definitely picture those chickens.
Kim, I know you are the Haiku Queen, and yet I read through this and halfway through I wondered to myself, “What is this interesting form?” (Face palm, “Oh, yes. Haiku.”) So many images that put us right in the scene with you. “ I-75 South / in North Georgia rain” “chicken carcasses strewn out / like castoff garments” is amazing. The description of them as “ladies” made me smile, and it makes the scene even more grisly. Thanks for telling us the story. I’m off to read your Good Friday poem now because I don’t remember it.
Kim, your poem is riveting! The imagery and dialogue about how these chickens died is brilliant. Love your format and the effortless flow of your poem. I was particularly moved by your lines: “these ladies groundward
to the hard concrete below” or maybe it was a chicken suicide pact.
Why did these chickens (try to) cross the road? Why did they pick I-75, to do so? I’m sorry, this is tickling my funny bone in some strange way, Kim. I admire your witty haiku so much; but, the scene is just so bizarre it is making me giggle. I want to imagine that these three were casualties, and the entire remaining truckload escaped into surrounding neighborhoods and are free, free, free…
Denise with the tough subject 🙂 thank you for the prompt. I love the golden shovel form and love your use of parentheses in your poem. I hope I’m able to write one this month. Today is not the day. I immediately thought of Tupac’s “In the Event of My Demise” and thought I’d write my own. Here is the link where I got the pic of his poem: https://2paclegacy.net/in-the-event-of-my-demise-tupacs-handwritten-poem/
In the Event of My Death
Dedicated 2 My Nonexistent Daughter
In the event of my death
Before I’m able 2 give birth
I hope I live on some other way
Since we never know when we’ll leave earth.
My dream is 2 see you grow
Teach you things I’ve learned
I hope I get this chance
I wonder if this I deserve
I see you in my dreams
But if you’re not real before my last breath
Know that I would have loved you
In the event of my death.
Angie, I can feel that sorrow, the mourning for what should be, could be, ending before it has even started and the loss of what would have been. This line, “But if you’re not real before my last breath” really got me. You honor Tupac’s writing with your take on his poem. Well done!
Angie, your poem makes me realize that dreams, too, are real and as alive as the greening grass outside my front door. Your nod to Tupac today is an affirming one, and I love that you took a mentor poem and crafted your own so beautifully, using it as your guiding inspiration. This may be one to bring when you host an Open Write – what a lovely way to capture your dreams and share them with us. I’m blowing dandelions today for you, my friend!
Angie – your poem takes my breath. The dream not yet realized, the great hope holding on, the love existing long before the reality – I am awed. You have utterly wrenched my heart! And: here’s to that deep longing finding fulfillment <3
Oh, Angie, this poem to sweet Aurora! I love the juxtaposition of death and birth in the first two lines. “I see you in my dreams” and “Know that I would have loved you” are breathtaking. Your heart-filled love for your daughter comes through in your words. Thank you for sharing your mentor text by Tupac. That is beautiful too.
Grave Decisions
Daises wilt,
as I rest underneath,
Nothing is real but false belief.
My spirit replays my story,
all of my envy-
ruined my glory.
looking up from six feet deep,
all my possessions
I cannot keep.
No one is around, and no one cares,
My greed cost friends,
because I did not share.
Only a preacher to say a verse,
a gravedigger
and driver of the hearse.
The preacher yelled “ Lord, he’s yours today, maybe you can change
his egotistical ways!”
surely, he’s not talking about me?
I’m genuine, I was the best I could be.
I, I, I?
what did I do?
sigh,sigh, sigh.
Lord, as I lay in this grave
is there anyway
I can be saved?
And the Lord answered in a
thunderous voice:
“SO a lifetime is not long enough
For you to make a choice?”
Now my spirit is unleveled,
Not choosing,
pleased the devil.
So, I asked devil “Why me?”
he SCOWLED “ I collect souls,
like you collected pennies!!”
My lost soul wonders the earth,
I whisper to men,
and warn them of true worth.
All disregard my threats,
all will be wanderers,
lost, filled with regrets.
Theres one thing I must tell you before you go.
this is your whisper,
just so you know.
Boxer
Boxer, I’m amazed! This has just the right amount of tension, with an honest look, to cause a sober self-search with a bit of spine shivering thrown in. The verbal responses from the Lord and the devil are so, so powerful! (“So a lifetime is not long enough for you to make a choice” and “I collect souls like you collected pennies” – wow! wow! wow!), And that last stanza – a reckoning indeed! This is mighty stuff here today.
This is impressive, Boxer. I love the conversations with the Lord and the devil added in and I especially love the double meaning in the title.
What an amazing poem today, full of thought provoking dialogue, the lifetime to make a choice, and the whisper at the end – – the nudge to check our decisions, to live for all the right reasons. We get one chance. Powerful, my friend. Have you considered doing a video of this and putting it on your social media page?
Boxer, what a beautiful poem of those end of life questions? I agree with Jennifer the words spoken by God and the devil are brilliant and interesting. “This is your whisper” stops me in my tracks. Thank you for sharing this today.
Write me, if you will,
in a minor key, so that
I may forever be
a song lingering
on your mind
the kind of melody
you can only shake
loose from time
to time;
I’ll forever be singing
in discordant signatures
and off-kilter rhymes
— Kevin
Oh geez, Kevin, this is perfect. Absolutely exquisite. To become a song written “in a minor key”… ahh, you are and forever will be the musician poet , lyrical in words and in song. I wish I’d written this. A song we hold onto “from time/to time”… even the spacing and pacing of your white spaces are art. Dang, you’re good… and so darned early! Does the dog wake you early or is it the music already measuring in your mind? I adore this poem. Susie
Kevin, I love the rhyme and the metaphor, it sounds so beautiful. Agree with Susie!
Kevin, your beginning lines beg us to consider our own keys of life – – and death. And the reasons. But that middle stanza is the one I think of when I think about loved ones crossing the bar (no musical pun intended) and how the hope must be so strong to cling to unforgottenness on the wind, in the sounds of music, in the clouds. This is thought provoking on so many levels.
Kevin, “write me, if you will,” is such a powerful invitation. I love that. I like the repetition of “forever” and the kind of melody you’ll be is hard to “shake loose.” Yes, here’s to you, our resplendent resident bard.
Kevin,
Gorgeous choices!
The end is priceless!
Kevin, I’ll simply harmonize with the other voices praising this poem.