Do not weep for too long. Do not say I have died. Do not bury me.
Song of the Sea
After my last sighs drift away and you fail to see my brown eyelashes quiver as the angels of daylight sprawl and stretch gently across the mist.
After my papercut hand falls by the flowers, which I do not know by the name, of white and yellow sweet smelling petalsyou placed below my pillow.
After my mind bids goodnight and my heart complies, gradually slowing down, the crimson it impels resting in my vessels, congealing, the chill budding in the fabric of my skin.
After my spirit breathes to the surface and I become a foreigner without a voice or eyes that frown, smile, and talk or a heated tangible skin.
As I lay in my bed, appearing yet similar to those who are living, the long curls of light hair falling about my tranquil features, the sleeves of my pure white cloth slightly loose around one shoulder, and my cool summer sheets twisted and warped between my uncovered legs.
Do not scream or weep too loud, for I will still hear every murmur. Do not undress me or enfold me in neat cerement. Do not bury me in a constricted wooden coffin. I fear the dark and I dread the wretchedness of the earth underneath.
Carry me quietly to the shore.
Leave me on the sun freckled moist sand.
Near the seashells and pretty-shaped smoothed pebbles.
Where the sea speckled with bitter salt tickles my toes and makes me giggle, even when I look asleep on the surface, as the tips of my fingers slowly cease and crumple into dust.
Do not weep for too long.
Do not say I have died.
Do not bury me.
For I shall be someday kindly awaken by the singing of the sea, slowly approaching to whisper to m y essence and retreating back to await my unhurried reincarnation.
YES! While I have no fears of dark or burial, I always thought it was a waste to bury an empty package, for this body will no longer be the holder of my spirit, it is so much worthless dross to be discarded.
Have you ever heard the Hopi prayer: When you awaken in the morning hush, I am the swift, uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die."
Your poem is so beautiful and speaks to me in so many ways.
"Do not scream or weep too loud, for I will still hear every murmur.
Do not undress me or enfold me in neat cerement.
Do not bury me in a constricted wooden coffin.
I fear the dark and I dread the wretchedness of the earth underneath."
My favorite part. This is trully a lovely piece, Thank you for sharing this. :3
AH BUBO. One of my favorites and dear friends here at the Cafe. Been reading her since 2007 and I never tire of her. Its a formidable task to write something for or like her. But this was resonant and fitting, and beautiful
Wow, wonderful poetry , you have the touch of a real poet, you use imageries in such a tender way , like all I want is to jump into the screen and feel that fantasy , its so real ... I am mostly love simple poems , with short lines , but you made it right, not too long (this time!) ... and not too many words, just the perfect touch.... you catch me from the beginning , and until the beautiful end ... will keep that in my favorites , Yossi
So what to say really? You have had a ton already said and I agree with most, not sure why your entire poem was dissected, but okay.
it was excellent, elegant, and beautiful. It flowed well, had great visuals and pulled me. Not sure you need much more than that. Wonder if anyone ever told shakespeare he should experiment with "freckle".
sometimes, a whole different inspiration can lead to a whole new interpretation. the connection of the image to this poem gives it a mileage but as a standalone, it is a master stroke. Exquisite language, oozing out of it is a essence of depravity and loneliness and the blue mysticism. Love the sea air, smell of wet sand and weeping shores..love ur work.
"which I do not know by the name," This should be "which I do not know by name"
"After my spirit breathes to the surface and I become a foreigner without a voice or eyes that frown, smile, and talk or a heated tangible skin." You keep putting periods at the end of each stanza, but thy seem to be incomplete thoughts. Also, this stanza was a bit confusing. I think you needed to put a comma after "talk" which would clear up your meaning.
I love this poem. You have great diction. I love that the speaker is dead, and that, in spite of the flowery diction and peaceful tone, and inspite of the font, this is a poem about death, although I suppose it could be argued that it is about life, as most poems about death are. I love that it ended with the word reincarnation, as well, emphasizing that what we see as the ultimate ending is not actually the end.
Great write. One of my favorites that I have read on here.
"The Universe is made of stories, not of atoms."
~Muriel Rukeyser
"There is no one more rebellious or attractive than a person lost in a book."
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