The game’s afoot, as one famous detective said; he was not above sleuthing and scattering in graveyards, and neither is this poem by yours truly. It has been a while since I offered you an original poem – actually just Act 1 of 3 – hot off the right hemisphere.
My associate Wannaskan Almanac writers (and other friends and acquaintances) often tell me I write “dark things,” and that I take a shady view of life itself. Probably true. Yes, definitely true. But someone has to do it! That is, write about what others are afraid to – like whistling in the night while walking in a graveyard.
Without delay, here is my latest work. Greatest? You decide. Keep in mind, Horatio, there are two more acts to come.
Bones Hollows and Spades
Act 1
He sees each and all of them
smells each unique yet same
lowers each sinking beneath the soily waves
drowning but not gasping under uncut hair of graves
One ghost and a madwoman ‘tis all I know
I speaks end-words to them that go
They lays dark-shifted, stiff and still, p'rhaps relieved
I disappear’dem at some various feet
some cracked jaws a’slanted – cheeks tight to teeth
some bloodied bodies ground ta’ grit
all faint and board-like into these uneven pits
Stirred up changelings soon t’will ripen, wormed black as toads
Traveling spaces untunneled, not arriving at forked roads
Soon fingers drop like dogs’ leavings from crouched haunches
twining but not tangled in rotting roots n branches
“Yes, ol’ fellow. Come here, Claude”
I trot quickly to him
a shabby shin bone in my jaws
I drop it and rest my snout
against Gideon’s thigh
He rests his elbows on his spade
musing silent in his way
I am a worthy creature, ‘tis true I say
I am one who ne’er asks why
unlike most folks do
never knowing when the last hunt will arrive
they join in the chase and end surprised
Not enough room in this damned rocky ground
Them what’s best takes ‘em to crossroads away’t from town
t'where earth is fair n space is free
a simple cross – no names on boseki
‘Tis the way I wants ‘em to bury me
or if a’boat, a final slide n slip into the sea
Bother! Here poor folk toss kin’s bodies flat
for the likes of Gideon to stuff ‘em in on their breasts or prats
My spade slices through the blackened throats
of them’s gone before, their flattened bones makin’ room for more
“You be sure Claude, and twice more unsealed
these holes they vomits up them charnel bones
making room for more – one two three
but no scribbled name on a family tomb
I sigh and listen
I’ve heard it all before
Poor soul!
He’s rotting, too, though he doesn’t know
One-time slanting cross the threshold, I came
all a’ribboned, perfumed and breeches stained
regrets gone behind and no fears ahead
I’ll rest calm in a clumped brown bed
Hinges on this box whine and squeak
but that’s long ago before this longest sleep
Before the gravedigger’s spade endarkened me
Before the wood’s grain was all I could see
They came by night without the wood box key
dug me up and dumped me out
broke brittled bones and cracked my neck
splintered my box snapped brass ripped satin
flinging my unjointed bone-crossed matter
My death-smelling clothes don’t fit me well
moldering gaseous in this unfertile clay
at least beyond desperation, beyond pain
I guess I thought the arrival of the final hurt
would find me in fire or clouds, not smeared with dirt
I must have thought this would be some pivot point
after the chants, the falling tears, the oiled anoints
But now, I’m riding my horse in pursuit of his thief
a thin and painted whore laughing with clownish glee
What’s this!?
A bare bone?
a head?
a weight up on a neck?
Oh, glory upon glory!
But will my snout fit inside?
If inside, can I open my jaws wide
enough to nip and lick the leathery bits?
Maybe just roll it ‘round and see what spouts?
Yes
might crack and push something out
“Give’t up! Let’t go!”
Gideon snaps as I crouch low
“Here, take this, you hound! You cur!”
My hackles rise as I scratch dirt from my fur
Oh, great Gideon! My friend, dear
you have thrown this dog a fresher bone
long and sleek with precious morsels on
I wag and pant, but he is back to spade throwing dirt
I slink away, a bit ashamed – a dribble hurt
My bone-plates dig sharp into my eerie holes
devoid of flesh, just air from side to side
empty as the dead sea scrolls
From behind my sockets, I see myself
my braincase turned away from them, but I can hear
sidelong sounds slip and blink where tunnels were
Gideon mumbles, Claude simpers
Lightest whispers through me murmur
As for speech, mine does not accord the situation
having died the usual death for my station
I am like melting snow in a silver bowl
Day by day a diaspora of bones
Background
I’ve “haunted” graveyards and cemeteries from England to New Orleans, from Poland to San Diego. They never cease to fascinate me – they are the repository of many insights into “the great matters” of life and death. When walking in a burial ground, one can’t help but feel something is going on despite the stillness of the residents.
As a kid, I spent a lot of time in my small hometown’s cemetery. When my cousins were around, it was great fun playing hide-and- seek among the tombstones. We spent a lot of time there because it seemed like someone in the family was always in the hospital just across the street. In fact, that hospital’s wide front with rows and rows of patient room windows looked right out on that cemetery. Ironic. A message from the Buddha? A comment on the hospital’s death toll?
If you are a literary person – one who enjoys truly great writing – you will find hints of a master in this piece – the pieces aren’t too hard to put together.
Exploration 1: What is a possible meaning of “not arriving at forked roads?”
Exploration 2: The poet purposefully uses the word “boseki.” It is a Japanese tombstone engraved with one or more persons remains or cremains. Due to the limited space in Japan, the practice of burying multiple bodies in the same grave was fairly common. Does this fact bring up other interpretations or facts about this poem. What new layers of place, poet and meaning you can find in the poem.
Exploration 3: Have you ever “haunted” a graveyard. Why? What, if anything, did you discover?
Exploration 4: Is this poem serious or humorous? Why do you think so?
My Grandpa Palm was a grave digger so I heard. The Palmville Cemetery was a quarter mile south of his house right along his east fence line, and is still half way between our two places. Whether he dug graves for other cemeteries, I don't know, but one time, coming home from a neighbor's house, he was said to have fallen into an open grave. Now whether he had dug that one and just forgot where it was in the dark, I don't know; but as the story goes he was just as quick getting out of it as falling into it.
ReplyDeleteAs I've written many times, my parents were older than average, and so it was as a youngun I went with them to several graveside services and so learned about the 'end-of-life-story' early in my career as a child. I don't recall being afraid of it; it wasn't 'spooky'. Well, at least they didn't make it out to be. It was just what happened to everybody in different ways; sometimes as a young person, sometimes as an old person, so the tombstones say.
I've learned that tombstones tell a story beyond birth and death dates; some are plain and to the point; others are very elaborate, ornate works of art. Some secular, some not. Some downright funny. I took my wife to a cemetery on one of our very first dates; she still married me, but sleeps with one eye open. Says its normal and she sleeps just fine . . .
I've lost my mind once or twice at graveside. One time, at the close of the internment service I leaned over and grasped the hand of one of the departed's sons, and for reasons I'll go to my grave not ever knowing, to my horror -- and his -- I said, "Congratulations." I up and quickly walked home swearing, slapping myself in the forehead.
My Grandfather Goggins was a bartender, and probably buried as many of his customers as did your GP. Most of my GF's clients were Irish Catholics, and did love their whiskey, etc. His father was an alcoholic; instead of a grave, he fell into a deep ditch on the way home in a snowstorm and died there, probably warm - for a while. I agree about things of the grave not being spooky. I have always found them fascinating, and personally, have not been afraid of death. Pain? Yes. Losing my mind? Yes. But not death itself. Don't know why. Maybe, I too was at too many gravesites. Then there were the years that my Goggins grandparents lived above a mortuary. My cousin, Sandi (my age) and I had great fun sneaking down to the funeral parlor after hours to view the corpses. Giggling time after time didn't hurt reduce any slight fears I may have had. Only fear there was getting caught. The worst time I've had at a grave side was when my only sibling/brother, Paul, died suddenly at 55. He was supposed to always be there for me - much more than our parents. I had some unusual experiences in the days following his death - visions? hallucinations? stress-induced emotionally-driven brain blips? They were real enough for me. Thank you for sharing your experiences - and thanks for joining me on my dark side.
Delete1. I'm a member of P.O.E.M. (Professional Organization of English Majors), so I'll have a go.
ReplyDeleteThe forked road could refer to Frost's poem about the road not taken. A dead person has taken his or her final fork in the road.
2. I goggled 'boseki' and got a Tokyo textile company. Bad google. Google Translate is better with "tombstone." So the poem is saying it's a graveyard with unmarked graves?
3. I like graveyards. I go in, look around, and leave while it's still light out.
4. The poem is serious and humorous, like its author.
Horatio is mentioned in the poem. He and Hamlet are in a graveyard to witness Ophelia's burial. Ophelia who killed herself because Hamlet's treatment. Hamlet had earlier killed Ophelia's father. Ophelia's brother will be at the burial and he and Hamlet engage in a dustup in Ophelia's grave.
"The game's afoot" is also Shakespeare, but not from Hamlet.