# 28... Confessional poetry

So, I was thinking about Confessional poetry after Group A's presentation...and I think that that is more or less my vein of writing. I make a lot of my work personal as it is easy to draw from what you have experienced, what you know. I think it is a good form of therapy for me as I tend to keep things locked inside and that is no good.

Confessional poetry, to me, is a means of purging oneself of the complications in life, the burdens of the mind that weighs one down. It helps take the weight of ones shoulders to express the pains and ills of the world through ones' writing.

In retrospect I would say a lot of the pieces I wrote this semester, whether good or bad have been pieces of confessional poetry as they conveyed quite a bit of my private experiences and feelings.

Even though I wrote Making Sense of it All as a prose poem, I believe it can fall under Confessional poetry as it unveils the feelings and experiences that I have been going through.

Here is the unedited version:

Making Sense of It All

They said, “I had to see you, to put “it” all into perspective and that I needed to get the initial shock out of the way.” They said, “Now is the time to get “it” all out.” What is this “it” I ask myself? Why do I have to get “it” out? What if I want to hold onto “it” forever? What if “it” is too much to let go?

It – Missing you, crying over you dying, fear of forgetting your face? Could “it” be my longing to hear your voice again, wanting to seek your advice, having a friend to talk to? Or is “it” the hugs that I will never have again, the words “I love you too” whispered from your mouth, your undivided attention, your unconditional love? I keep asking myself these questions as I approach the room they hold your body in. And I wonder too, how is it I am with the rest of my family yet still feel empty and all alone?

I think and I walk and I walk while I think and I say internally: I want to tell you mummy that I miss you, but I can't tell you that can I? You're no longer here. I want to tell you that I will never forget you, that you were the greatest, most beautiful person in my life, that you were my rock to stand on, my foundation. But I can't. I want to hold you close, feel your motherly love. But I can't do that. I want to tell you that I love you forever, but I can't tell you that... That all I want right now is to have you back in my life again, to say and do all these things. All I want in the world is you and me to sit next to each other, to know that our family will not be broken, even if only for one more day. But it won't happen, would it? So, I just keep walking.

Walking down the cold hallway to view your body was a heart-wrenching experience. I’ve done it many times before, but this was something different. The feeling was surreal, my body was numb, and I could not feel. I wanted to run, full of fear, but had to face you one last time.

You were not ready for viewing, but your burial was a day away. I had to see you so “it” would all make sense. I was not ready. Seeing your cold, unclothed body lying on the cold porcelain top in the cold, uninviting mortuary was bloodcurdling. I almost dropped.

Staying strong for daddy is all that kept me from bawling. The thoughts – You can’t make yourself sick, you’re now a vessel for the grandchild she wanted and will never know – echoed within me. The words – Stay strong for your siblings, they can’t see you hurting. You can’t make your pain seem as though it is worth more than theirs – ran through my head.

The day of your funeral all of us stayed strong for daddy. We made a pact with each other that we will not be broken anymore. We filed into the church, one by one behind you. We sang from our hearts, prayed with our might and did our best to eulogize you. We did not break. We did not crumble into pieces yet stood tall and proud and joined in the celebration of your life.

Now the dreaded part—the part that solidifies your absence from my world—your cremation. You laid for one last viewing in front of us mourners. You lie so peaceful and still. When the clock struck twelve you were taken away. Don’t go mummy, stay with me. You can’t leave right now. I have so much to share with you. I have so much to say.

Your casket wheeled out through the large wooden doors. Beyond the doors the crackling fire sounded, inviting your body into the life of the fire. Your body was reduced to ashes and your soul delivered unto the world. You are physically gone, but will live on in our hearts.
Good bye mummy.


Here is the one that I wrote for Group A's presentation:

Love left behind

And so it is, I'm left once again.
The fourth one now in my 10 years of relations.
But this one was different, this one I loved.

I feel a deep piercing pain within my soul.
I want to tell you the pain you've caused,
But for fear of making worst, I stay mute.

I try to internalize your every word.
Though at times it feels as if the words just pass me by.
I doubt this could be happening again, and this time by your hand.

Yet somehow I manage it.
I grit my teeth and hold tight my tongue,
For fear of letting you win by making me utter words I dare not say.

I let you finish, pack your bags and leave the documents by the door.
Once again, left alone, but not a woman scorned. I move on.
The dotted lines I sign, for I'm free.

Free from the one I once loved, who betrayed me.

# 27... Taking Poetry to the Next Level (Performance Art)

After reading Shanterica's posting, Poem About My Rights by June Jordan I remembered American performance artist Karen Finley.I thought that Jordan's work was similar to Finley's as it speaks about the degradation of women and the feelings and emotions that women experience while being subjected to it.
I think performance art is a unique way of getting ones voice heard. The pieces to me are full of imagery and the delivery poetic.

Feel free to leave comments about this post.
Below is a piece I wrote on Karen Finley for my Public Speaking class, it should give shed some light on this artist.

Karen Finley

Today I would like to honour one of the greatest voices of performance art. A New York-based performer, author, playwright, and director, Karen Finley explores and discusses themes of the body, sexual abuse and violence, AIDS, suicide, female sexuality, and American politics.

This young lady whose theatrical pieces have been labelled "obscene" due to depictions of sexuality and abuse has raised awareness through her performances. She has also received critical acclaim from various organizations and in the art world despite many objections to her work.

Beautiful, outspoken, beautifully outspoken, 54 year old Finley from Evanston Illinois has much to give credit to for her years as a "controversial performance artist -- from growing up as the daughter of a mother she described as "not white" and a father who was a manic-depressive jazz musician who eventually committed suicide to the loss of friends to AIDS, Finley has managed to cover most of today's heated debates and topics, including a commemoration to Tawana Brawley, a young woman who alleged that some police officers raped her and smeared her with feces, through her spoken word and according to New York Metro "has managed to play a significant role in the early-nineties cultural firestorm surrounding the National Endowment for the Arts."

Finley went up against the National Endowment for the Arts to defend her work which was considered inappropriate and had vetoed her grant. She won that but later lost at the Supreme Court level and lost her funding based on a "lack of decency" standards.

Karen Finley is a woman like no other and will continue to touch the lives of many whether it be through inspiration or provocation. Learning about her has opened my eyes to many controversial pieces and works of "free speech" and has reminded me that life is meant to be enjoyed and people should be treated as equals.

So, I leave you with a line from the artist:

“My work is against violence, against rape and degradation of women, incest and homophobia...When I smear chocolate on my body it is a symbol of women being treated like dirt.”

To see more on Karen Finley click here.

I will try to get an audio clip posted so you can hear some of her work.

Ok, I could not figure out how to place audio on the blog, so I made a quick video and added the audio to share with you guys.

The clip is It's My Body from the A Certain Level of Denial album.

Here it is:

# 26... Writing and effective Prose poem

Just as the article suggests below, there is a "thin line between poetry and prose." While reading some of the submissions for this form I found that some of them were leaning more toward the prose side and did not utilize the rhyme and sometimes language that poetry contains.

I could be wrong, but I wanted to share this with you, just in case some of you found it hard to master this form.


How to Write a Prose Poem

The prose poem walks a thin line between poetry and prose. It became popular with poets like Charles Baudelaire, Oscar Wilde and Robert Bly because it offered freedom from structure and form. Prose poetry does not use poetic meter, rhyme, line breaks or stanzas. But it does retain the repetition, language and imagery of poetry. Unlike prose, the prose poem is not as concerned with plot or narrative and its point of view is more reflective and turned inward. The prose poem can be a paragraph, three paragraphs, a page or many pages.
Difficulty: Moderate

Instructions


Step 1

Know that you won't have to worry about rules of form. Rhyme schemes, meter, stanza and line breaks don't apply.

Step 2

Consider the structure of prose. Prose poems take the shape of paragraphs and contain sentences and sentences fragments.

Step 3

Think about a time where you were struck by a particular image, how you came upon that image, how that image made you feel and what went through your mind when you saw it.

Step 4

Write about that experience. Pay particular attention to describing the image and your emotions in detail. Use poetic devices like consonance, assonance, simile, metaphor, repetition and symbol. You can tell a story in your poem, but it comes second to the language (or how you tell the story).

Step 5

Don't worry about correct punctuation right now. You may be writing a prose poem, but you still want to keep the effects of poetry. Sometimes correct punctuation can hurt the rhythm you've established. Your prose poem can contain sentence fragments and very long sentences.

Step 6

Read over your prose poem. Take note of the language you've used. See if you can add more detail. Take note of the story or the thoughts you've expressed. See if anything needs to be added or revised.

Step 7

See if you have an epiphany. Not all poems need epiphanies, but some really benefit from them. See if the poem's train of thought naturally leads to an epiphany or a closing thought or image to leave with the reader.

Courtesy: ehow.com

# 25... Self Pity

I am totally in love with the works of D.H. Lawrence. I just remembered this poem. One of my favorites. It's short and sweet, and is also cited by Viggo Mortensen in G.I. Jane.

Self Pity

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.

-- D.H. Lawrence

About the author

D.H. Lawrence
born September 11,
1885, Eastwood, Nottinghamshire, England
died March 2, 1930, Vence, France

in full David Herbert Lawrence English author of novels, shortstories, poems, plays, essays, travel books, and letters. His novels Sons and Lovers (1913), The Rainbow (1915), and Women in Love (1920) made him one of the most influential English writers of the 20th century.

Reference:
Lawrence, D.H.. (2010). In Encyclopædia Britannica. Retrieved April 3, 2010, from Encyclopædia Britannica Online: http://search.eb.com.proxygsu-wgc1.galileo.usg.edu/eb/article-9047416

#24... Death is Nothing.

I just wanted to share this poem with you.

It was read at my mum's funeral and I thought it was very moving and comforting.


Death is Nothing

“Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me
in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone;
wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the
little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household
word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effort,
without the ghost of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was; there is
absolutely unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of my mind
because I am out of sight?

I am waiting for you at an interval,
somewhere very near, just around the corner.

All is well.”

-- Henry Scott Holland

# 23... My Elegy

This is the elegy that I wrote. It definitely needs some work. I may change the poem entirely, but these are the thoughts that came to mind after her recent death. Any feedback will be glady accepted. Thanks.

Elegy for My Mother

Oh mother! Caregiver! A friend I can call.

Determined and strong, great example to all.

Full of compassion, honor and endless love.

You were bold and full of pride, undoubtedly a gift from above.

You are my gem.

With pride you stood tall and high.

Struck by illness you refused to fall or cry.

You would give the poor your last penny.

And your intelligence molded many.

You are my foundation.

To you, your family was important.

You gave us all your time.

You instilled in us hope and bliss.

Our intelligence you never undermined.

You are my strength.

Oh mother! My nurturer! The end for you has come.

Your body has given in; the fight you fought was won.

Now you may rest in peace and feel at ease.

Your work on earth is done.

You live on in us all.

The Stoning of Soraya M.

Don't act like the hypocrite, who thinks he can conceal his wiles while loudly quoting the Koran.
-- Hafez, 14th Century Iranian Poet

About the poet

Hafez lived in Shiraz; his pen name—“Who Knows the Qur'an by Heart”—indicates his wide religious education, but little is known about the details of his life. The same is true of many Persian lyrical poets, since their products rarely contain much trustworthy biographical material. Hafez's comparatively small collection of work—his Divan contains about 400 ghazals—was soon acclaimed as the finest lyrical poetry ever written in Persian. The discussion of whether or not to interpret its wine and love songs on a mystical plane has continued for centuries. Yet this discussion seems sterile since Hafez, whose verbal images shine like jewels, is an outstanding exponent of the ambiguous and oscillating style that makes Persian poetry so attractive and so difficult to translate. The different levels of experience are all expressed through the same images and symbols: the beloved is always cruel, whether a chaste virgin (a rare case in Persian poetry!) or a professional courtesan, or, as in most cases, a handsome young boy, or God himself, mysterious and unattainable—or even, on the political plane, the remote despot, the wisdom of whose schemes must never be questioned by his subjects. Since mystical interpretation of the world order had become almost second nature to Persians during the 13th century, the human beloved could effortlessly be regarded as God's manifestation; the rose became a symbol of highest divine beauty and glory; the nightingale represented the yearning and complaining soul; wine, cup, and cupbearer became the embodiment of enrapturing divine love. The poets' multicoloured images were not merely decorative embroidery but were a structural part of their thought. One must not expect Hafez (or any other poet) to unveil his personal feelings in a lyrical poem of experience. But no other Persian poet has used such complex imagery on so many different levels with such harmonious and well-balanced lucidity as did Hafez. His true greatness lies in this rather than in the content of his poetry. It must be stressed again that, according to the traditional view, each verse of a ghazal should be unique, precious for its own sake, and that the apparent lack of logic behind the sequence of verses was considered a virtue rather than a defect. (It may help to think of the glass pieces in a kaleidoscope, which appear in different patterns from moment to moment, yet themselves form no logical pattern.) To what extent an “inner rhythm” and a “contrapuntal harmony” can be detected in Hafez's poetry is still a matter for discussion; but that he perfected the ghazal form is indisputable. Whether he is praised as a very human love poet, as an interpreter of esoteric lore, or, as has been recently suggested, as a political critic, his verses have a continuing appeal to all lovers of art and artistry.

Courtesy: Islamic arts. (2010). In Encyclopædia Britannica. Retrieved March 20, 2010, from Encyclopædia Britannica Online: http://search.eb.com.proxygsu-wgc1.galileo.usg.edu/eb/article-13736



I just watched the movie The Stoning of Soraya M. and was deeply moved by the true story of a young mother who was stoned to death after being falsely accused by her husband of adultery in a small town in Iran (just so he could get rid of her to marry a younger woman).

The quote in the beginning of the movie has now been entered in my personal book of favorite quotes and I wanted to share it with you all.

If you get a chance to watch the movie, do.

# 22... Elegy in the form of a song

Tears In Heaven

by Eric Clapton and Will Jennings

Would you know my name
If I saw you in heaven?
Would it be the same
If I saw you in heaven?

I must be strong
And carry on,
'Cause I know I don't belong
Here in heaven.

Would you hold my hand
If I saw you in heaven?
Would you help me stand
If I saw you in heaven?

I'll find my way
Through night and day,
'Cause I know I just can't stay
Here in heaven.

Time can bring you down,
Time can bend your knees.
Time can break your heart,
Have you begging please, begging please.

Beyond the door,
There's peace I'm sure,
And I know there'll be no more
Tears in heaven.

Would you know my name
If I saw you in heaven?
Would it be the same
If I saw you in heaven?

I must be strong
And carry on,
'Cause I know I don't belong
Here in heaven.

Inspiration for the song:

On 20 March 1991, Eric's four year old son, Conor, died on impact after a fall from the 53rd-storey window of his mother's friend's New York City apartment, landing on the roof of an adjacent four-storey building. Clapton's grief was expressed in the song "Tears in Heaven", which was co-written by Will Jennings.

Courtesy Wikipedia

My dad always had me listening to his LP's as a child, so I had a penchant for older tunes. This song is not as old as LP music, but is still one of my favorite songs.

When the idea of songs being used for elegies was brought up in class I went through the vault in my head trying to think of a good example to share with the class. Above is what I came up with. I hope you enjoy it.

# 21... More on elegies

In addition to what was covered in class here is another piece of information I found on elegies...

Other elegies observe no set patterns or conventions. In the 18th century the English *“graveyard school” of poets wrote generalized reflections on death and immortality, combining gloomy, sometimes ghoulish imagery of human impermanence with philosophical speculation.

Representative works are Edward Young's Night Thoughts (1742–45) and Robert Blair's Grave (1743), but the best known of these poems is Thomas Gray's more tastefully subdued creation “An Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard” (1751), which pays tribute to the generations of humble and unknown villagers buried in a church cemetery. In the United States, a counterpart to the graveyard mode is found in William Cullen Bryant's “Thanatopsis” (1817). A wholly new treatment of the conventional pathetic fallacy of attributing grief to nature is achieved in Walt Whitman's “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd” (1865–66).

elegy. (2010). In Encyclopædia Britannica. Retrieved March 17, 2010, from Encyclopædia Britannica Online: http://search.eb.com/eb/article-9032350


* “graveyard school” genre of 18th-century British poetry that focused on death and bereavement. The graveyard school consisted largely of imitations of Robert Blair's popular long poem of morbid appeal, The Grave (1743), and of Edward Young's celebrated blank-verse dramatic rhapsody Night Thoughts (1742–45). These poems express the sorrow and pain of bereavement, evoke the horror of death's physical manifestations, and suggest the transitory nature of human life. The meditative, philosophical tendencies of graveyard poetry found their fullest expression in Thomas Gray's “An Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard” (1751). The poem is a dignified, gently melancholy elegy celebrating the graves of humble and unknown villagers and suggesting that the lives of rich and poor alike “lead but to the grave.” The works of the graveyard school were significant as early precursors of the Romantic Movement.

graveyard school. (2010). In Encyclopædia Britannica. Retrieved March 17, 2010, from Encyclopædia Britannica Online: http://search.eb.com/eb/article-9037789

Below are two of the poems that were referred to in the excerpts from Encyclopædia Britannica.

An Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard
by Thomas Gray

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." The Epitaph

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

To gain greater insight on this poem click here.

~~~~~ . ~~~~~ ~~~~~ . ~~~~~ ~~~~~ . ~~~~~

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd
by Walt Whitman

¹ WHEN lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd,

And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,

I mourn'd…and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

2 O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;

Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,

And thought of him I love.

2

3 O powerful, western, fallen star!

O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!

O great star disappear'd! O the blank murk that hides the star!

O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!

O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul!

3

4 In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash'd palings,

Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,

With every leaf a miracle……and from this bush in the door-yard,

With its delicate-color'd blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

A sprig, with its flower, I break.

4

5 In the swamp, in secluded recesses,

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

6 Solitary, the thrush,

The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,

Sings by himself a song.

7 Song of the bleeding throat!

Death's outlet song of life—(for well, dear brother, I know,

If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would'st surely die.)

5

8 Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,

Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris;)

Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes—passing the endless grass;

Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising;

Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;

Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,

Night and day journeys a coffin.

6

9 Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,

Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,

With the pomp of the inloop'd flags, with the cities draped in black,

With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil'd women, standing,

With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,

With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads,

With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,

With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn;

With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour'd around the coffin,

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—Where amid these you journey,

With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang;

Here! coffin that slowly passes.

I give you my sprig of lilac.

7

10 (Nor for you, for one, alone;

Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring:

For fresh as the morning—thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and sacred death.

11 All over bouquets of roses,

O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies;

But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,

Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes:

With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,

For you and the coffins all of you, O death.)

8

12 O western orb, sailing the heaven!

Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we walk'd,

As we walk'd up and down in the dark blue so mystic,

As we walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night,

As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night,

As you droop'd from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other stars all look'd on;)

As we wander'd together the solemn night, (for something I know not what, kept me from sleep;)

As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how full you were of woe;

As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cool transparent night,

As I watch'd where you pass'd and was lost in the nether- ward black of the night,

As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb,

Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

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13 Sing on, there in the swamp!

O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes—I hear your call;

I hear—I come presently—I understand you;

But a moment I linger—for the lustrous star has detain'd me;

The star, my comrade, departing, holds and detains me.

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14 O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?

And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?

And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?

15 Sea-winds, blown from east and west,

Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting:

These, and with these, and the breath of my chant,

I perfume the grave of him I love.

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16 O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?

And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,

To adorn the burial-house of him I love?

17 Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,

With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray-smoke lucid and bright,

With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air;

With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific;

In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;

With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;

And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,

And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

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18 Lo! body and soul! this land!

Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hur- rying tides, and the ships;

The varied and ample land—the South and the North in the light—Ohio's shores, and flashing Missouri,

And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover'd with grass and corn.

19 Lo! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty;

The violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes:

The gentle, soft-born, measureless light;

The miracle, spreading, bathing all—the fulfill'd noon;

The coming eve, delicious—the welcome night, and the stars,

Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

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20 Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird!

Sing from the swamps, the recesses—pour your chant from the bushes;

Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.

21 Sing on, dearest brother—warble your reedy song;

Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

22 O liquid, and free, and tender!

O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer!

You only I hear……yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;)

Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me.

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23 Now while I sat in the day, and look'd forth,

In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops,

In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests,

In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds, and the storms;)

Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,

The many-moving sea-tides,—and I saw the ships how they sail'd,

And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,

And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages;

And the streets, how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pent,—lo! then and there,

Falling among them all, and upon them all, enveloping me with the rest,

Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail;

And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

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24 Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,

And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,

And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,

I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not,

Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,

To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still.

25 And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me;

The gray-brown bird I know, receiv'd us comrades three;

And he sang what seem'd the song of death, and a verse for him I love.

26 From deep secluded recesses,

From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still,

Came the singing of the bird.

27 And the charm of the singing rapt me,

As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night;

And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.

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28 Come, lovely and soothing Death,

Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,

In the day, in the night, to all, to each,

Sooner or later, delicate Death.

29 Prais'd be the fathomless universe,

For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious;

And for love, sweet love—But praise! O praise and praise,

For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.

30 Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,

Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?

Then I chant it for thee—I glorify thee above all;

I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

31 Approach, encompassing Death—strong Deliveress!

When it is so—when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,

Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,

Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.

32 From me to thee glad serenades,

Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee—adornments and feastings for thee;

And the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting,

And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

33 The night, in silence, under many a star;

The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know;

And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil'd Death,

And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

34 Over the tree-tops I float thee a song!

Over the rising and sinking waves—over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide;

Over the dense-pack'd cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways,

I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death!

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35 To the tally of my soul,

Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,

With pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night.

36 Loud in the pines and cedars dim,

Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume;

And I with my comrades there in the night.

37 While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,

As to long panoramas of visions.

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38 I saw the vision of armies;

And I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags;

Borne through the smoke of the battles, and pierc'd with missiles, I saw them,

And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody;

And at last but a few shreds of the flags left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)

And the staffs all splinter'd and broken.

39 I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,

And the white skeletons of young men—I saw them;

I saw the debris and debris of all dead soldiers;

But I saw they were not as was thought;

They themselves were fully at rest—they suffer'd not;

The living remain'd and suffer'd—the mother suffer'd,

And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suf- fer'd,

And the armies that remain'd suffer'd.

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40 Passing the visions, passing the night;

Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands;

Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul,

Victorious song, death's outlet song, (yet varying, ever- altering song,

As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,

Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,)

Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven,

As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses.

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41 Must I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves?

Must I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, return- ing with spring?

42 Must I pass from my song for thee;

From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, com- muning with thee,

O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night?

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43 Yet each I keep, and all;

The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, I keep,

And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd in my soul, I keep,

With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe;

With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor;

Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep—for the dead I loved so well;

For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands… and this for his dear sake;

Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul,

With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird,

There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim.

For more on this poem and other Walt Whitman poems click here.

Or to read a criticism of this piece click here.