Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible.
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
Emily Dickinson
Monday, September 14, 2009
Death & Co. by Sylvia Plath
Two.Of Course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now⎯
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled, like Blake's,
Who exhibits
The Birthmarks that are his trademark⎯
The scald scar of water,
The nude
Verdigris of the condor
I am red meat. His beak
Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple
Frill at the neck,
Then the flutings of their Ionian
Death-gowns,
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.
The other does that,
His hair long and plausive.
Bastard
Masturbating a glitter,
He wants to be loved.
I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star.
The dead bell,
The dead bell.
Somebody's done for.
It seems perfectly natural now⎯
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled, like Blake's,
Who exhibits
The Birthmarks that are his trademark⎯
The scald scar of water,
The nude
Verdigris of the condor
I am red meat. His beak
Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple
Frill at the neck,
Then the flutings of their Ionian
Death-gowns,
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.
The other does that,
His hair long and plausive.
Bastard
Masturbating a glitter,
He wants to be loved.
I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star.
The dead bell,
The dead bell.
Somebody's done for.
the kiss
The Kiss
I hoped that he would love me,
And he has kissed my mouth,
But I am like a stricken bird
That cannot reach the south.
For though I know he loves me,
To-night my heart is sad;
His kiss was not so wonderful
As all the dreams I had.
Sara Teasdale
I hoped that he would love me,
And he has kissed my mouth,
But I am like a stricken bird
That cannot reach the south.
For though I know he loves me,
To-night my heart is sad;
His kiss was not so wonderful
As all the dreams I had.
Sara Teasdale
Do not stand at my grave and weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.
Mary Frye
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.
Mary Frye
"It is dangerous to read Newspapers"
It Is Dangerous to Read Newspapers by Margaret Atwood
While I was building neat
castles in the sandbox,
the hasty pits were
filling with bulldozed corpses
and as I walked to the school
washed and combed, my feet
stepping on the cracks in the cement
detonated the red bombs.
Now I am grownup
and literate, and I sit in my chair
as quietly as a fuse
and the jungles are flaming, the under-
brush is charged with soldiers,
the names on the difficult
maps go up in smoke.
I am the cause, I am a stockpile of chemical
toys, my body
is a deadly gadget,
I reach out in love, my hands are guns,
my good intentions are completely lethal.
Even my
passive eyes transmute
everything I look at to the pocked
black and white of a war photo,
how
can I stop myself
It is dangerous to read newspapers.
Each time I hit a key
on my electric typewriter,
speaking of peaceful trees
another village explodes.
While I was building neat
castles in the sandbox,
the hasty pits were
filling with bulldozed corpses
and as I walked to the school
washed and combed, my feet
stepping on the cracks in the cement
detonated the red bombs.
Now I am grownup
and literate, and I sit in my chair
as quietly as a fuse
and the jungles are flaming, the under-
brush is charged with soldiers,
the names on the difficult
maps go up in smoke.
I am the cause, I am a stockpile of chemical
toys, my body
is a deadly gadget,
I reach out in love, my hands are guns,
my good intentions are completely lethal.
Even my
passive eyes transmute
everything I look at to the pocked
black and white of a war photo,
how
can I stop myself
It is dangerous to read newspapers.
Each time I hit a key
on my electric typewriter,
speaking of peaceful trees
another village explodes.
The Prince to Snow White by Polly Peterson
(in response to Snow White and the Prince by Delia Sherman )
Did you think that I found you
by chance, Maiden?
Did you believe
I was drawn to your crystal casket,
like a hummingbird to its nectar,
by the allure of ruby lips,
the gaze of azure eyes?
The mirror told your mother,
at forty,
what she already knew,
not in her heart,
but in her spleen.
"Take her into the forest,"
she commanded,
"for her heartbeat plays
the music of my mortality,
and must be stopped."
Still the mirror
told her true.
She was the fading flower —
a fresh blossom
opened in you.
Ragged she came,
and gnarled and stooped,
hoping by this guise
to fool fate,
to quell the crone within.
Her apple froze you fast —
a talisman
to keep time
from touching her.
Alas, to no avail.
You shall have
your mother's love.
Indeed, you have it now,
even as you
usurp her place.
Did you think that I found you
by chance, Maiden?
You are beautiful, sublime,
yet not so lovely
as our daughter will be:
your mother's daughter's child —
her immortality.
Did you think that I found you
by chance, Maiden?
Did you believe
I was drawn to your crystal casket,
like a hummingbird to its nectar,
by the allure of ruby lips,
the gaze of azure eyes?
The mirror told your mother,
at forty,
what she already knew,
not in her heart,
but in her spleen.
"Take her into the forest,"
she commanded,
"for her heartbeat plays
the music of my mortality,
and must be stopped."
Still the mirror
told her true.
She was the fading flower —
a fresh blossom
opened in you.
Ragged she came,
and gnarled and stooped,
hoping by this guise
to fool fate,
to quell the crone within.
Her apple froze you fast —
a talisman
to keep time
from touching her.
Alas, to no avail.
You shall have
your mother's love.
Indeed, you have it now,
even as you
usurp her place.
Did you think that I found you
by chance, Maiden?
You are beautiful, sublime,
yet not so lovely
as our daughter will be:
your mother's daughter's child —
her immortality.
The Hangman at Home
The Hangman at Home by Carl Sandburg
WHAT does the hangman think about
When he goes home at night from work?
When he sits down with his wife and
Children for a cup of coffee and a
Plate of ham and eggs, do they ask
Him if it was a good day’s work
And everything went well or do they
Stay off some topics and talk about
The weather, base ball, politics
And the comic strips in the papers
And the movies? Do they look at his
Hands when he reaches for the coffee
Or the ham and eggs? If the little
Ones say, Daddy, play horse, here’s
A rope—does he answer like a joke:
I seen enough rope for today?
Or does his face light up like a
Bonfire of joy and does he say:
It’s a good and dandy world we live
In. And if a white face moon looks
In through a window where a baby girl
Sleeps and the moon gleams mix with
Baby ears and baby hair—the hangman—
How does he act then? It must be easy
For him. Anything is easy for a hangman,
I guess.
WHAT does the hangman think about
When he goes home at night from work?
When he sits down with his wife and
Children for a cup of coffee and a
Plate of ham and eggs, do they ask
Him if it was a good day’s work
And everything went well or do they
Stay off some topics and talk about
The weather, base ball, politics
And the comic strips in the papers
And the movies? Do they look at his
Hands when he reaches for the coffee
Or the ham and eggs? If the little
Ones say, Daddy, play horse, here’s
A rope—does he answer like a joke:
I seen enough rope for today?
Or does his face light up like a
Bonfire of joy and does he say:
It’s a good and dandy world we live
In. And if a white face moon looks
In through a window where a baby girl
Sleeps and the moon gleams mix with
Baby ears and baby hair—the hangman—
How does he act then? It must be easy
For him. Anything is easy for a hangman,
I guess.
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