Section 51, Song of Myself

Photo by Lilly Rum on Unsplash

The past and present wilt—I have fill'd them, emptied them.

And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?

Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,

(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper?

Who wishes to walk with me?

Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?

~ Walt Whitman

Unfinished Poem

Source: AsianTown.NET

I squeezed up the last stair to the room in the roof

And lay on the bed there with my jacket off.

Seeds of light were sown on the failure of evening.

The dew came down. I lay in the quiet, smoking.

That was a way to live—newspaper for sheets,

A candle and spirit stove, and a trouble of shouts

From below somewhere, a town smudgy with traffic!

That was a place to go, that emaciate attic!

For (as you will guess) it was death I had in mind,

Who covets our breath, who seeks and will always find;

To keep out of his thought was my whole care,

Yet down among the sunlit courts, yes, he was there,

Taking his rents; yes, I had only to look

To see the shape of his head and the shine of his book,

And the creep of the world under his sparrow-trap sky,

To know how little slips his immortal memory.

So it was stale time then, day in, day out,

Blue fug in the room, nothing to do but wait

The start of his feet on the stair, that sad sound

Climbing to cut me from his restless mind

With a sign that the air should stick in my nose like bread,

The light swell up and turn black—so I shammed dead,

Still as a stuck pig, hoping he’d keep concerned

With boys who were making the fig when his back was turned;

And the sun and the stove and the mice and the gnawed paper

Made up the days and nights when I missed supper,

Paring my nails, looking over the farbelow street

Of tramways and bells. But one night I heard the feet.

Step after step they mounted with confidence.

Time shrank. They paused at the top. There was no defence.

I sprawled to my knees. Now they came straight at my door.

This, then, the famous eclipse? The crack in the floor

Widening for one long plunge? In a sharp trice,

The world, lifted and wrung, dipped with remorse.

The fact of breathing tightened into a shroud.

Light cringed. The door swung inwards. Over the threshold

Nothing like death stepped, nothing like death paused,

Nothing like death has such hair, arms so raised.

Why are your feet bare? Was not death to come?

Why is he not here? What summer have you broken from?

~ Philip Larkin

Untitled

Source: Favim

That poet you scorned

for retiring when he was forty,

then beginning thirty years later

with the same voice and style

The crack in his life invisible

What he said in youth

and approaching death

having the same breath

that precise pitch

unaffected by time

What a wonder I think now

after all those wars and eras

of love he must have passed through

not one gesture altered

as he wrote, as if he always slept

this way beside her

What could we learn

by leaving the color blue

for another?

~ Michael Ondaatje

Death

Source: Favim 

Death is a funny thing. Most people are afraid of it, and yet

they don't even know what it is.

           Perhaps we can clear this up.

           What is death?

           Death is it. That's it. Finished. "Finito." Over and out. No more.

           Death is many different things to many different people. I 

think it is safe to say, however, that most people don't like it.

            Why?

            Because they are afraid of it.

            Why are they afraid of it?

            Because they don't understand it.

           I think that the best way to try to understand death is to 

think about it a lot. Try to come to terms with it. Try to really

understand it. Give it a chance!

           Sometimes it helps if we try to visualize things.

           Try to visualize, for example, someone sneaking up behind 

your back and hitting you over the head with a giant hammer.

           Some people prefer to think of death as a more spiritual

thing. Where the soul somehow separates itself from the mess

and goes on living forever somewhere else. Heaven and hell being 

the most traditional choices.

           Death has a very black reputation but, actually, to die is a 

perfectly normal thing to do.

           And it's so wholesome: being a very important part of 

nature's big picture. Trees die, don't they? And flowers?

           I think it's always nice to know that you are not alone. Even in death.

           Let's think about ants for a minute. Millions of ants die 

every day, and do we care? No. And I'm sure that ants feel the 

same way about us.

           But suppose—just suppose—that we didn't have to die. 

That wouldn't be so great either. If a 90-year-old man can hardly

stand up, can you imagine what it would be like to be 500 years old?

           Another comforting thought about death is that 80 years or 

so after you die nobody who knew you will still be alive to miss you.

           And after you're dead, you won't even know it.

~ Joe Brainard

Death

Source: Favim 

Death is a funny thing. Most people are afraid of it, and yet

they don't even know what it is.

           Perhaps we can clear this up.

           What is death?

           Death is it. That's it. Finished. "Finito." Over and out. No more.

           Death is many different things to many different people. I 

think it is safe to say, however, that most people don't like it.

            Why?

            Because they are afraid of it.

            Why are they afraid of it?

            Because they don't understand it.

           I think that the best way to try to understand death is to 

think about it a lot. Try to come to terms with it. Try to really

understand it. Give it a chance!

           Sometimes it helps if we try to visualize things.

           Try to visualize, for example, someone sneaking up behind 

your back and hitting you over the head with a giant hammer.

           Some people prefer to think of death as a more spiritual

thing. Where the soul somehow separates itself from the mess

and goes on living forever somewhere else. Heaven and hell being 

the most traditional choices.

           Death has a very black reputation but, actually, to die is a 

perfectly normal thing to do.

           And it's so wholesome: being a very important part of 

nature's big picture. Trees die, don't they? And flowers?

           I think it's always nice to know that you are not alone. Even in death.

           Let's think about ants for a minute. Millions of ants die 

every day, and do we care? No. And I'm sure that ants feel the 

same way about us.

           But suppose—just suppose—that we didn't have to die. 

That wouldn't be so great either. If a 90-year-old man can hardly

stand up, can you imagine what it would be like to be 500 years old?

           Another comforting thought about death is that 80 years or 

so after you die nobody who knew you will still be alive to miss you.

           And after you're dead, you won't even know it.

~ Joe Brainard

Japanese Maple

Image credit: JoshFriedmanPhoto 

Your death, near now, is of an easy sort.

So slow a fading out brings no real pain.

Breath growing short

Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain

Of energy, but thought and sight remain:

Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see

So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls

On that small tree

And saturates your brick back garden walls,

So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?

Ever more lavish as the dusk descends

This glistening illuminates the air.

It never ends.

Whenever the rain comes it will be there,

Beyond my time, but now I take my share.

My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new.

Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.

What I must do

Is live to see that. That will end the game

For me, though life continues all the same:

Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes,

A final flood of colors will live on

As my mind dies,

Burned by my vision of a world that shone

So brightly at the last, and then was gone.

~ Clive James

Japanese Maple

Image credit: JoshFriedmanPhoto 

Your death, near now, is of an easy sort.

So slow a fading out brings no real pain.

Breath growing short

Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain

Of energy, but thought and sight remain:

Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see

So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls

On that small tree

And saturates your brick back garden walls,

So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?

Ever more lavish as the dusk descends

This glistening illuminates the air.

It never ends.

Whenever the rain comes it will be there,

Beyond my time, but now I take my share.

My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new.

Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.

What I must do

Is live to see that. That will end the game

For me, though life continues all the same:

Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes,

A final flood of colors will live on

As my mind dies,

Burned by my vision of a world that shone

So brightly at the last, and then was gone.

~ Clive James

Poem: Death, be not proud

Death Be not Proud part two by Michahsbitch

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

~ John Donne

Poem: Death, be not proud

Death Be not Proud part two by Michahsbitch

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

~ John Donne

Poem: In the Mirror

Death in the mirror by mirakkkkk

The death I see
coming to me
stops to chat
more frequently.

"How's my good man?"
he asks, all grin
and bonhomie.
He can get in

any body-hole.
I squeeze mine shut,
don't even breathe.
He can hear what

I think, so I don't,
except for Go.
Because he's fast,
I try to be slow—

slow as prehistory,
slow as a stone,
slow as eternity,
slow as alone.

"I am Alone,"
he boasts. "It's fun.
I get to kiss
everyone."

His lips become
a luscious bed.
"I'll kiss you
before you're dead.

I'm the last one
you will see.
If I were you,
I'd be nicer to me."

What in the world
would that mean?
I'm afraid to ask.
Something obscene

no doubt he looks
red hot to say.
Is it possible
death is gay?

"Of course I am—
or, rather, bi-.
How do you think
women die?"

He heard my thought—
I forgot he can.
"Why would you want
to be a man?"

I finally ask aloud.
"You are thick,"
he replies. "If you were
a brick I'd be a brick.

I'm the mirror
of your sorry soul.
I reflect you
completely whole."

And when I look
I can see
him melting back
into me:

his lips, his eyes,
his razor brains.
My doughy wrinkles.
My spider veins.

~ Michael Ryan

Poem: In the Mirror

Death in the mirror by mirakkkkk

The death I see
coming to me
stops to chat
more frequently.

"How's my good man?"
he asks, all grin
and bonhomie.
He can get in

any body-hole.
I squeeze mine shut,
don't even breathe.
He can hear what

I think, so I don't,
except for Go.
Because he's fast,
I try to be slow—

slow as prehistory,
slow as a stone,
slow as eternity,
slow as alone.

"I am Alone,"
he boasts. "It's fun.
I get to kiss
everyone."

His lips become
a luscious bed.
"I'll kiss you
before you're dead.

I'm the last one
you will see.
If I were you,
I'd be nicer to me."

What in the world
would that mean?
I'm afraid to ask.
Something obscene

no doubt he looks
red hot to say.
Is it possible
death is gay?

"Of course I am—
or, rather, bi-.
How do you think
women die?"

He heard my thought—
I forgot he can.
"Why would you want
to be a man?"

I finally ask aloud.
"You are thick,"
he replies. "If you were
a brick I'd be a brick.

I'm the mirror
of your sorry soul.
I reflect you
completely whole."

And when I look
I can see
him melting back
into me:

his lips, his eyes,
his razor brains.
My doughy wrinkles.
My spider veins.

~ Michael Ryan

Poem: Sudden

Source: The Guardian

If it had been a heart attack, the newspaper
might have used the word massive,
          as if a mountain range had opened
                      inside her, but instead

it used the word suddenly, a light coming on

in an empty room. The telephone

fell from my shoulder, a black parrot repeating
                        something happened, something awful

            a sunday, dusky. If it had been

terminal, we could have cradled her
as she grew smaller, wiped her mouth,

                  said good-bye. But it was sudden,

how overnight we could be orphaned
& the world became a bell we'd crawl inside
& the ringing all we'd eat.

~ Nick Flynn

Poem: Sudden

Source: The Guardian

If it had been a heart attack, the newspaper
might have used the word massive,
          as if a mountain range had opened
                      inside her, but instead

it used the word suddenly, a light coming on

in an empty room. The telephone

fell from my shoulder, a black parrot repeating
                        something happened, something awful

            a sunday, dusky. If it had been

terminal, we could have cradled her
as she grew smaller, wiped her mouth,

                  said good-bye. But it was sudden,

how overnight we could be orphaned
& the world became a bell we'd crawl inside
& the ringing all we'd eat.

~ Nick Flynn

Quote: Death

Source: MunFitnessBlog.com

There are many things in this world that are an outrage, to be sure, but death at our current life expectancy doesn’t strike me as one of them. Maybe I sound like some Victorian who felt that forty years ought to be enough for any man, but one of the marks of a life well lived has to be reaching a state of finally getting it, of not needing more, and of being able to sign off with something approaching peace of mind.

~ David Rakoff

Quote: Death

Source: MunFitnessBlog.com

There are many things in this world that are an outrage, to be sure, but death at our current life expectancy doesn’t strike me as one of them. Maybe I sound like some Victorian who felt that forty years ought to be enough for any man, but one of the marks of a life well lived has to be reaching a state of finally getting it, of not needing more, and of being able to sign off with something approaching peace of mind.

~ David Rakoff

Quote: Tapestry of life

The Walthamstow Tapestry by Grayson Perry. Photograph: Linda Nylind

There are days when I think there really is some huge great tapestry of a plan out there and we're all woven into it - this fabulous, complex pattern of life and death, full of recurring motifs and waves of color, and we're each one tiny thread in the weave.

~ Jane Johnson

Quote: Tapestry of life

The Walthamstow Tapestry by Grayson Perry. Photograph: Linda Nylind

There are days when I think there really is some huge great tapestry of a plan out there and we're all woven into it - this fabulous, complex pattern of life and death, full of recurring motifs and waves of color, and we're each one tiny thread in the weave.

~ Jane Johnson

Now You Must Go Wherever You Wish

Source: Unknown/Favim

In moments like this, when he shows what appears to be a purely
accidental grace, it seems
almost believable: death has changed him.

See how,
               as if having muscled finally a way clear of the dark,
a dark stripped of the very stars without which the night sky's
distance—and with it, the crossing of distance, meaning hope, risk,
ambition—wouldn't even be knowable,
                                                         he steps into the light, then out of it?

~ Carl Phillips

Now You Must Go Wherever You Wish

Source: Unknown/Favim

In moments like this, when he shows what appears to be a purely
accidental grace, it seems
almost believable: death has changed him.

See how,
               as if having muscled finally a way clear of the dark,
a dark stripped of the very stars without which the night sky's
distance—and with it, the crossing of distance, meaning hope, risk,
ambition—wouldn't even be knowable,
                                                         he steps into the light, then out of it?

~ Carl Phillips

For Heidi With Blue Hair

Source: Facebook/Favim

When you dyed your hair blue
(or, at least ultramarine
for the clipped sides, with a crest
of jet-black spikes on top)
you were sent home from school

because, as the headmistress put it,
although dyed hair was not
specifically forbidden, yours
was, apart from anything else,
not done in the school colours.

Tears in the kitchen, telephone-calls
to school from your freedom-loving father:
'She's not a punk in her behaviour;
it's just a style.' (You wiped your eyes,
also not in a school colour.)

'She discussed it with me first -
we checked the rules.' 'And anyway, Dad,
it cost twenty-five dollars.
Tell them it won't wash out -
not even if I wanted to try.

It would have been unfair to mention
your mother's death, but that
shimmered behind the arguments.
The school had nothing else against you;
the teachers twittered and gave in.

Next day your black friend had hers done
in grey, white and flaxen yellow -
the school colours precisely:
an act of solidarity, a witty
tease. The battle was already won.

~ Fleur Adcock