Nothing melodramatic going on here, I just thought this was a good poem.
Especially the last stanza.
‘To Whom Shall I Speak Today?’
To whom shall I speak today?
I am laden with misery
Through lack of an intimate …
Death is in my sight today
Like the clearing of the sky,
Like a man attracted thereby to
What he knows not.
Death is in my sight today,
Like the longing of a man to see home
When he has spent many years held in
captivity.
Anon
(A dispute over suicide, Egypt, before 2000 BC)
Poem found at: http://torch.cs.dal.ca/~johnston/poetry/towhom.html
Sonnet XVII
Pablo Neruda
|
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved
in secret, between shadow and soul
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where
I love you straightforwardly, without complexity or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. |
This is not only one of my favorite Dickinson poems, but one of my favorite poems, period. I appreciate the gentility and beauty that she uses to describe death, which is after all just a portal.
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 strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, they passed us;
The dews drew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
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, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward Eternity.
Alone in an Abandoned House
The landscape is dead, as am I.
Naked trees sway against the cold, wet kiss of the wind
and I rock myself, also naked, hounded by
life’s ghosts, its secrets, its arrogance.
I could die here and no one would know.
I could die here on this cold wooden floor,
alone with my psychosis,
just outside of town
and no one would know.
My eyes resemble these windows:
empty, broken and caked
with the dirt of wasted years
that took too long to pass by
even as they were too swift
to be corralled.
There are no drapes.
My lids do no shut.
No effort is made to protect
what is within from
what is without. There is no one
to tend to the details, so
the house falls in
on itself.
I might die here and no one will know.
(c)2008 Susan Sonnen
.
The picture below has provided me an overflowing cup of inspiration.
I know how that house feels.
I will be writing poetry today.
I am so very blessed. I will be spending the rest of my life with my dearest friend.
I was reminded of how great our life together will be when we were discussing the Quran and the Bible today. We will have a lifetime of intense discussions and quiet ponderings.
I’m sleepy right now and wishing that I were with him so that he could read poetry to me.
Oh, happy day! Hannah asked me if I had a book of poetry that she could read. Boy, do I! I sent her Mary Oliver’s way this morning.
Hannah was working on a poem two nights ago. She hasn’t done that for awhile. I hope that she keeps up with it.
Lizzy writes poetry and fiction. She used to write a lot of fan fiction.
John writes poetry. I have some of his tucked away.
James wrote a poem in elementary school that was wonderful. Really! I need to find it because I want to frame it.
