death poetry

White owl flies into and out out of the field

Coming down
out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel,
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings -
five feet apart – and the grabbing
thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys
of the snow

and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes,
to lurk there,
like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows -
so I thought:
maybe death
isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us -

as soft as feathers -
that we are instantly weary
of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,
not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow -
that is nothing but light – scalding, aortal light -
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.

by Mary Oliver

When death comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

as each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
of full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

by Mary Oliver

Death

Do not stare at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awake in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.

by Anonymous

For Jennifer dying on her twelfth birthday

A cupcake with one pink candle
on the nightstand beside her bed,
Christ crucified on the hospital wall above her.

Most of her youth consumed by leukemia,
her body closing, she let go at last.

And with that last breath
lifted her Jesus from the cross.

The end of years of illness.
Free now to ride her beloved horse.

Sitting beside her empty body,
I sensed ancient Mary, Mother of Mercy,
come to cradle the newly dead in her infinite arms
and the children come slowly to the table
for the supper gently promised at Golgotha.

And I wondered,
all-too-rational and brokenhearted,
how when thousands died that day,
just one Mary could embrace them all.

And offering me her shoulder she whispered,
When a thousand people look at the moon
there are a thousand moons.

by Stephen Levine

from: The Plum Village Chanting

I am of the nature to grow old.
There is no way to escape growing old.

I am of the nature to have ill health.
There is no way to escape ill health.

I am of the nature to die.
There is no way to escape death.

All that is dear to me and everyone I love
are the nature to change.

There is no way to escape
being separated from them.

My actions are my only true belongings.
I cannot escape the consequences of my actions.

My actions are the ground upon which I stand.

by Thich Nhat Hanh

Love constant beyond death

The final shadow that will close my eyes
will in its darkness take me from white day
and instantly untie the soul from lies
and flattery of death, and find its way
and yet my soul won’t leave its memory
of love there on the shore where it has burned:
my flame can swim cold water and has learned
to lose respect for laws’ severity.
My soul, whom a God made his prison of,
my veins, which a liquid humour fed to fire,
my marrows, which have gloriously flamed,
will leave their body, never their desire;
they will be ash but ash in feeling framed;
they will be dust but will be dust in love.

by Francisco Gomez de Quevedo