Fall
Scenarios
(1)The balconies
Children
barely two years old
fall all the
time and are never blamed
nor
forgotten
So do young
wives with new babies but they leave
clutching a
tag of deliberate cruelty
(as if a
tiny baby can defeat
mites of
lovelessness crawling through blood streams)
'bachelors'
earning loneliness
and far too
little money fall on their loved ones
from
unfinished buildings
Their
families fall in tandem
Anyone can
on a
convenient day,
fall
if pushed
which is why
we have balconies
(2)Possibilities on a cloud-less day
I fall from
the balcony
on to the
roof of the parking lot
A pigeon
cloud rises
I fall onto
the balcony of the man
who rings
his wife daily and throws glowing stubs
into the
darkness; his phone bills shatter the night
I fall on
the old, green Pilot
abandoned in
the no-parking lot
our bodies
create art in public
Dust on dust
we lie
I fall on
the quiet road, halting a few footsteps
bones race
out of skin
energy
dissipates, ether waits
I fall on
the clean grounds of the big white mosque
Waiting
footwear scatters
The crowd
inside prays unanimously for a way to heaven
I get there
first
One would think that a suicide poem would have to be morbid, not wickedly funny like this one. For example, "Richard Cory" by Edwin Arlington Robinson:
ReplyDeleteWhenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
But, perhaps because the subject matter is so grim, a lot of poets find a bit of fun in the theme. "A Ballade Of Suicide" G. K. Chesterton:
The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours--on the wall--
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
To-morrow is the time I get my pay--
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall--
I see a little cloud all pink and grey--
Perhaps the rector's mother will not call-- I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way--
I never read the works of Juvenal--
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational--
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray
So secret that the very sky seems small--
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
Envoi
Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
Haha.. loved them both Duane! Who ever decreed that death has to be solemn? To die laughing is to have died well. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteWow, Reena!
ReplyDelete:-) Thanks Ampat Koshy
Delete