Death, come not cheaply. Neither in blue coma
or wrinkled hints of somatization; spin in a noir
parapet of black hats, squeeze me with Mitchum’s
preacher hand, thick and meaty, let each
sound be a music box’s last gold pluck. Death,
come not cheaply, wind up as a music box,
fall as its last symphony. Come in a black hat,
tattooed and preachy or stay home and
make a strange color of me, as Martha and Mary’s
pale brother waiting in his Father’s light
house for instructions, olive green eyes,
staring past us forever.
Comments
I read it as...
though it were about someone who is kind of out of touch; maybe just waiting for death and not totally aware. I visited my mother at the nursing home today and I saw a couple of those. My mom; [thank whatever providence you may], is mostly as sharp as she ever was and although her health dictates her living in a nursing home, still is Mom. But there were some who just sat staring at yesterday and trying to figure out how to touch it again. Anyhow, that's my interpretation. You got it right.
~ Geezer.
.
I read it as...
though it were about someone who is kind of out of touch; maybe just waiting for death and not totally aware. I visited my mother at the nursing home today and I saw a couple of those. My mom; [thank whatever providence you may], is mostly as sharp as she ever was and although her health dictates her living in a nursing home, still is Mom. But there were some who just sat staring at yesterday and trying to figure out how to touch it again. Anyhow, that's my interpretation. You got it right.
~ Geezer.
.
this is very beautiful. it is
this is very beautiful. it is uncomfortable (see "somatization", "preachy"), as death is ought to be. it is not without grace and depth, though, like olive green eyes and music boxes. I really like this.
Thank
youuu guys
Thank
youuu guys
Thank you for a great poem.
Interesting perception of death.
Your poem has a balanced combination of abstract (blue coma, wrinkled hints) and specific (olive green eyes staring pass us forever) as well as objective and deeply personal takes on the topic.
Together it makes your work a real deal I relate very much.
I like the long continuous murmury rhythm and the lack of proper conjugation of the word death and the following verbs. It makes me feel as if death is in single and plural forms in the same time.
Leo Tolstoy talks about a phase when dying man refocuses his attention somewhere beyond the line of visible reality or as if he starts seeing the world on a different scale.(for example, Prince Andrey in War and Peace)
Fascinating subject, many poems and writings done, yet you found a fresh take on it.
some
poetry gives me the chills ...
thank you
Thank you
Death will always be new to us, I think, because it is a perception that also connects to an "ultimate reality", though that term seems very heavy handed to me now. Though people don't like to talk about it or even think about it to a large degree, I think it is the reason for all these poems and all this other stuff.
That and experience, the weirdness of it. I love abstract words! Most people don't enjoy that, thank you.
My pleasure!
My pleasure!