15 February 2021 Bones Hollows and Spades: Act Two

Welcome back to the graveyard! Cemetery. Charnel Grounds. Last Resting Place. Bone yard. Skull orchard, 墓地. It’s all the same in the end. (Argh!)

As I’ve said before, I’ve been labeled as one who tends toward the dark side too often and too much. With that in mind, I’m going to do my best in the commentary before and after the second Act of “Bones, Hollows, and Spades" to stay on the lighter side, share some “little known facts” about burial conditions, and generally shy away from diving too deeply into the cerebral and philosophical. There is enough of that heady stuff within the poem itself.  Anyway, how far from humor can we get considering our three players are a talking skull, a dog with the wisdom of a buddha, and a gravedigger who has seen enough of death for fifty lifetimes. I’ve also thrown in a trip to Fargo in today’s bargain.

Without delay, then, here is Act Two of “Bones, Hollows, and Spades.” Act One can be accessed on 1 February 2021, Monday, posted at the Wannaskan Almanac.

Bones, Hollows, and Spades

 Act Two

Questioning a dead man ‘tis folly’s fun

but ask I will and hear what comes

I’ll talk wit’da skull that Claude’s nose dug up

‘dis roundish bone lies ons’top like’n filthy cup

 

He pauses digging, leans on the shovel

His thoughts seem to flit and float, hover, and bubble

I stop my gnawing, cock my head, prick my ears

Best not to bark or interfere

 

                                                                                                                        Dust

                                                                                                                                                Dust

Blowing never ends

grit swirls on circling winds

Through bone-nose notches gray dust trickles

dust-bits’ swirlings probe and prickle

like fading wafts of memory

now nearly lost in absent-minded reverie

floating above my grounded head

barely kenning that I am dead

 

Once I was a carcass complete

blood, sinew, and bone-hanging meat

now flesh husked, blood dried up

my skull on its back – an empty cup

 

I gnaw again, then let go the bone

I slump down weary, chomping done

I dip to dim hearing my own faint snores

I wake and drop back more and more

I rise and fall from sleep to dreams

back and forth and back again

Sliding and drifting under silent snow

 

                                                                                                            Dust

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Dust

Boot-blackened grit blocks my empty throat

my absent mouth full of wind and whistles

all this hollowness an undying riddle

No wood-clad ship to shelter me

I’ve had enough of worms and beetles

Laertes-like and buried hugger-mugger

undrained, I rotted before the funeral supper

I’m from the creatural lower class

not even wrapped in hair of grass

That’s the most I know of who I truly am

a condition present – understanding the end

Shroudless, exposed, skin time-turned black

 barely blanketed by turgid soil

 quick, yet dead, where roots coil

 

But enough of this backward looking

It weights upon my absent back

Rather the man behind the shovel, pushing

digging

digging

with no normal pause

and then there is this uncouth dog

he, too, digging with his spread-toed paws

this mutt who treats me like any other bone

 

And here we go – I know this rumble

thoughts roll up, surface and tumble

out and down the sides of rubble

regurgitate, boil and bubble

I’ll slink away – avert this trouble

Background

If you google “Fargo ND cemeteries,” a map pops up sporting those little red circles with some sort of pointing appendage at the bottom, indicating where each cemetery is located. “North Buffalo,” “Fargo National,” and “Oak Mound.” If you look, you’ll see the ever popular “Evergreen,” “Sunset,” and “Riverside.” Ethnic and diverse religious groups have staked out their plots of land – “Salem Lutheran,” “Fridem Swedish,” “Islamic Society,” and “Beth El.”  Lest we forget, Fargo has the singular, “Sunset Pet Cemetery.” And that’s just a sampling of about half the cemeteries in the Fargo area.  

(Warning: this paragraph may offend some readers.) But Fargo is nothing special. People are dying wherever you look, to state the obvious, especially in this time of pandemic. Dying is so common that everybody does it eventually. The point is that they are everywhere – cemeteries, that is. It’s a wonder we haven’t run out of space. Well, actually some countries and cities have run out of ground suitable for burial. Makes one think harder about cremation, doesn’t it? (More on these subjects when we post Act Three of “Bones, Hollows, and Spades.”)

Do you know why the traditional depth of burial is six feet? Some of you trivia buffs do. After the next few sentences, you will also be in the know. It all started with the plague: The origins of “six feet under” come from a 1665 outbreak in England. As the disease swept the country, the mayor of London literally laid down the law about how to deal with the bodies to avoid further infections.

How about those above-ground cemeteries in New Orleans? How come? This is an easier question, as we know the answer only too well. New Orleans' cemeteries are filled with above-ground tombs because of the city's swampy terrain. The cemeteries draw tourists, and the tourists draw criminals who hide between the tombs and monuments and rob and mug unsuspecting tourists. It's worth the money to sign up for a commercial cemetery tour to avoid being a victim.

What happens when we run out of cemetery space? Stay tuned for commentary on this subject when we post Act Three of “Bones, Hollows, and Spades.”

Exploration 1: What do you think of Claude? His view on all the happenings around him? His loyalties, if any?

Exploration 2: Does Gideon’s accent remind you of anywhere? 

Exploration 3: Do you like heroic couplets, minus the iambic pentameter? Do they suit this poem?