Talking to Grief

Ah, Grief, I should not treat you
like a homeless dog
who comes to the back door
for a crust, for a meatless bone.
I should trust you.

I should coax you
into the house and give you
your own corner,
a worn mat to lie on,
your own water dish.

You think I don’t know you’ve been living
under my porch.
You long for your real place to be readied
before winter comes. You need
your name,
your collar and tag. You need
the right to warn off intruders,
to consider
my house your own
and me your person
and yourself
my own dog.

– Denise Levertov

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It began right here.

A HUMBLING at my knees. I let him record me doing it all.

I wanted to watch me be a monster later. I didn’t know

 

he’d leave me with all these vultures grazing my veins.
Me: the dead lion that keeps dying. Him: the flies that won’t leave

 

my
blood
alone.
How many times must I say
blood
before you know
what I’m trying to say? I am writing this from the same bed the
devil
caught up to me in. Now he sleeps in my eyes, in my tongue, my
dick
my liver, my heart. Everywhere the
blood
is he sleeps. & I knew

 

before I knew & I can’t tell you how. Something in my body’s song
sang sharp or sang flat

lined. How can I explain to you that ghosts

 

have always been real & I am learning to become one? They say
it’s not a death

sentence like it used to be. But is it not
still life?

 

I will die in this
blood
prison. I’m learning to become all
the space I need. I am learning how to be hallow

 

being filled
brought
me
to
this. & what is this? Do I dare tell you
I laughed today? For a second I was unhaunted. I was the sun

 

& not the light of some dead star. I was last week. I was negative.
But I’m not that, not the sun either. I am a house swollen with the
dead

 

but I am still a home. This bed where it happened is where I
sleep.
– Danez Smith

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

– Thomas Hardy

Hardy became frustrated with the response to his novels, especially Tess and Jude (1895) and only wrote poetry for the rest of his life. He wrote around 600 poems in his life and many help understand his sense of tenderness, realism, and tragedy. 

 

Here

After it ended badly it got so much better
which took a while of course but still
he grew so tender & I so grateful
which maybe tells you something about how it was
I’m trying to tell you I know you
have staggered wept spiraled through a long room
banging your head against it holding crushed
bird skulls in your hands your many hearts unstrung
unable to play a note their wood still beautiful
& carved so elaborately maybe a collector would want them
stupid collectors always preserving & never breaking open
the jars so everyone starves while admiring the view
you don’t own anyone everything will be taken from you
go ahead & eat this poem please it will help

– Kim Addonizio

Early October Snow

It will not stay.
But this morning we wake to pale muslin
stretched across the grass.
The pumpkins, still in the fields, are planets
shrouded by clouds.
The Weber wears a dunce cap
and sits in the corner by the garage
where asters wrap scarves
around their necks to warm their blooms.
The leaves, still soldered to their branches
by a frozen drop of dew, splash
apple and pear paint along the roadsides.
It seems we have glanced out a window
into the near future, mid-December, say,
the black and white photo of winter
carefully laid over the present autumn,
like a morning we pause at the mirror
inspecting the single strand of hair
that overnight has turned to snow.

– Robert Haight