the poet

 

 

 

   I read the obituary each morning.

   Not to find out who died but to find out

   who could.

   Who could find the nerve,

   in this regular space,

   to allow the leadsman

   to check the depths

   of lithology;

   the rock faces

   of writers, who

   make lists

   of roses and sunsets.

 

 

   Anaclitic to body;

   the centurion, lacking restraint,

   guards beauty.

   The layered fulcrum,

   grantor of your hair, your teeth,

   (kissing)

   the true grapholect

   of the sweetest language.

 

 

   On my headstone please mention

   that I loved harp music,

   windage thru tight forests

   and visits

   from goliaths

Reviews

[Emily B]

my mother used to read the obituaries every morning and one day she found her own name, but she is a morbid woman, and if i die i don't want to read it in a paper

i thought of asking someone to write me an epitaph the other day, so that i have one small detail pinned down and then have less to worry over when i'm gone

this set of words you've offered today reminds me very much of that earlier emily, i imagine she loved space and depths and lists in much the same way

[Sel Whiteley]

A stunning poem and a very intense one too. I adore geology and the way something so concrete (I suppose like death) is contrasted with the flowers and sunsets, it's incredible. There is so much for shadowing and yet the ending is still a shock. Such a well-controlled poem, truly beautiful.

[...]

. you seem to be a rather fascinating poet and human ... i aspire for "visits from goliaths" ... or wait ... maybe they already do visit me ... very beautiful poetry ...