The Poets Wrote Of Death,

The poets wrote of deaths,

Not their own, nor anyone they knew.

Hardly a new feat,

“Timor mortis conturbat me” was the mantra,

But instead of warmth, I grimaced in pain.

Somehow the clang hurt the ear,

Like a broken mokugyo.

Nothing rang true to the depths of the loss.

Their tears barely reached the withered grass under their feet.

 

The mourning families were there,

The lilies of the valley were there, nicely laid out

Next to the choirs, who were sadly out of tune, and

The priest with his ridiculous clothes

(We all knew what was under his robe).

 

But where was the heart?

Their laments were as meaningless as

Wool sweaters in June,

Ezra, Kenneth, Walt, Oh captain, my captain,

Have we forever lost our way?

Where are the souls of these poets?

 

While they were dining in imaginary

Uptown restaurants, with imaginary

Steak and lobster and wine, robustly

Congratulating themselves on the latest quatrain,

Oh so perfectly executed in form, a marvel of engineering,

Our heroes’ hearts were dying a little at a time

And no one noticed

 

Author's Note

I wrote this out of a sense of frustration, I suppose, having read a number of poems, not on this site, about death. As you can guess, there was no imagination or compassion in the works, and it made me sad.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i can understand the sadness....if they were just an exercise in writing, and the heart was missing...

sometimes i have a combative attitude when it comes to form---i want to know where the guts are.

i really like the part about them dining and congratulating themselves...someone should throw a lobster at them.

j.

[daninstockholm]

It was indeed that which created the sadness,, form over feeling, function over expression, the tools of the poet so easily thrown away. I don't know Jacob, call me old-fashioned, or just plain old, but i can't recall EVER writing a poem in a pre-described form, except the very occasional (attempt) at haiku, but then, i know it's going to be in that form already, it' sitting in my mind waiting to come out, Poems without feeling or without a certain amount of the understanding and use of the tools of our trade gets old to me after awhile,, I love new poets, I'm still learning that's for damn sure,,hopefully we can all learn together, but to do that, one has to realize the desire to do so.

[David Scott]

I get this... It all seems a bit frivolous at times. Poetry can be so many things to so many people. We oft forget it can also be meaningless noise and vain projection...
A worthy thought and well constructed poem Dan.

[Gee]

Nice Dan,an eloquent rant.Better go back and have a look at my "Death " poems.Very good writing.

[mattavelli]

Hey now, I wrote a poem about my fear of death, which contains quatrains and intricate rhyme and meter. And I congratulated myself upon completion. Haha... I've only posted it on this site though.
Because of that, I got a kick out of this one.
I feel lucky that there are so many people who enjoy writing and sharing their poetry. I enjoy watching the Live Feed and reading the reviews. That's how I choose who I want to read. It gives a taste of personally.

[katie]

First of all, I want to thank you for introducing me to Medieval Poetry. Secondly, thank you for making me have to look up what a mokugyo is. (Not sarcasm.) I do appreciate your works always being so intellectual. It's refreshing to review a piece that has depth. Beautifully penned as always, Sir. Bravo!

[daninstockholm]

katie,, thank you so deeply for this very kind review!! I am, as always, very grateful!

[katie]

You're incredibly welcome! (I'll be catching up on reading your works in the next few days. I'm catching up on 30 read requests, too! Hah!)

[softlyfall]

Death seen without bitterness or horror or grief seems healthy to me. Perhaps you wished more respect for the process of metamorphosis.
Perhaps they spoke of life with affection, and death as a mere fact of reality to be examined.
There was not the same perspective long ago. People died suddenly, inexplicably, often quite young. To let that mold the poets' hearts would have been futile, I would think.