There’s a cross in the field where the scarecrow stood And the ravens have all come back And the ravens would say, if they only could That a scarecrow is straw and a cross is wood And the wings of a famine black.
There’s a cross on the grave where the hero lies He whose war was to end all wars And his empty skull holds a thousand why’s And the crow that struts on his grave replies With a thousand triumphant caws.
There’s a cross on the hill where the scapegoat hung Like a scarecrow to ward off sin And the prayers are said and the hymns are sung And the gorcrows perch on their hills of dung Where the plagues of the world begin.
There’s a cross in the dark of the Southern sky Where the stars wink a long farewell As the ghosts of the ravens prepare to fly To return to the void of their black god’s eye With a tale that they’ll never tell.
*****
Simon MacCulloch writes: “This poem melds the Christian symbol of death and resurrection with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse in an attempt to express how one feels after reading the world news in recent times.”
Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of journals including Reach Poetry, View from Atlantis, Spectral Realms, Altered Reality, Aphelion and others.
Eulogy, First Draft The bastard’s dead, That much is true. What can be said? It sounds ill-bred To say, “He’s through. The bastard’s dead.” Perhaps, instead, “We mourn.” Few do. What can be said? “He shared no bread. He slurred the Jew.” The bastard’s dead. He often wed And wandered, too. What can be said That will not spread The truth we knew? The bastard’s dead. Much will be said.
Eulogy, Second Draft He never killed a man. I think he paid his taxes. He didn’t join the Klan And didn’t send junk faxes. I once heard him say please, Perhaps a muffled thanks. On drunken weekend sprees He shot off only blanks. On principle, I guess, I’m sorry that he’s dead, As most here would profess. I’ll quit while we’re ahead.
Eulogy, Revised I think this is the final text. I’ve got nothing, friends. Who’s next?
*****
J.D. Smith writes: “We are told not to speak ill of the dead. Fair enough, in some ways. It isn’t sporting to assail those who aren’t present to defend themselves, and even the most skeptical can still feel the fear of summoning an angry spirit. And yet. We can all think of instances where the world was improved by someone’s leaving it. Similarly, the removal of a troublesome athlete from a team is called “addition by subtraction.” We again come face to face with Clarence Darrow‘s most famous quotation: ‘I’ve never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure.‘ Obituaries themselves, particularly of public figures, are often couched in positive or no worse than neutral terms. A multitude of sins is covered by words such as “controversial.” At the same time, a dialectic obtains. I am under the impression that negative if not excoriating obituaries of public figures have grown more common in the British press, and that practice has occasionally migrated to my country, the United States. The example that comes to mind is a scathing review of the life of tycoon Walter Annenberg. We now and again see similar takedowns of not-so-dearly-departed private citizens in local newspapers. The same issues present themselves in eulogies. I’ve never been presented with a situation where I could take the podium and slag the deceased, and if the opportunity ever does arrive I almost certainly lack the spine and other parts to take advantage of it. My Jungian shadow and I keep in touch, though, and various thoughts arise. Hence this little suite of poems. There are some we come not to praise but to bury, and as soon as possible.”
J.D. Smith’s seventh collection of poetry, The Place That Is Coming to Us, will be published later this year by Broadstone Books. His first fiction collection, Transit, is available from Unsolicited Press. Further information and occasional updates are available at www.jdsmithwriter.com.
When at the end of spring I pick for the last time My favourite flowers— a yearning fills my breast, And to the future I urgently appeal: Let me but once again look upon the lilies of the valley.
Now they have faded. Like an arrow the summer has flown by, The days have grown shorter. The feathered choir is still, The sun more charily grants us its warmth and light, And already the wood has laid its leafy carpet.
Then when harsh winter comes And the forests don their snowy cover, Despondently I roam and wait with new yearning For the skies to shine with the sun of spring.
I find no pleasure in books, or conversation, Or swift-rushing sledges, or the ball’s noisy glitter, Or Patti, or the theatre, or delicate cuisine, Or the quiet crackling of smouldering logs on the fire
I wait for spring. And now the enchantress appears, The wood has cast off its shroud and prepares for us shade, And the rivers start to flow, and the grove is filled with sound, And at last the long-looked-for day is here!
Quick to the woods!—I race along the familiar path. Can my dreams have come true, my longings be fulfilled?— There he is! Bending to the earth, with trembling hand I pluck the wondrous gift of the enchantress Spring.
O lily of the valley, why do you so please the eye? Other flowers there are more sumptuous and grand, With brighter colours and livelier patterns, Yet they have not your mysterious fascination.
Where lies the secret of your charms? What do you prophesy to the soul? With what do you attract me, with what gladden my heart? Is it that you revive the ghost of former pleasures, Or is it future bliss that you promise us?
I know not. But your balmy fragrance, Like flowing wine, warms and intoxicates me, Like music, it takes my breath away, And like a flame of love, it suffuses my burning cheeks.
And I am happy while you bloom, modest lily of the valley, The tedium of winter days has passed without a trace, And oppressive thoughts are gone, and in my heart in languid comfort Welcomes, with you, forgetfulness of trouble and woe.
Yet now you fade. Again in monotonous succession The days will begin to flow slowly, and stronger than before Will I be tormented by importunate yearning, By the agonizing dream of the happiness of days in May.
And then someday spring again will call And raise the living world out of its fetters. But the hour will strike. I shall be no more among the living, I shall meet, like everyone, my fated turn.
And then what?—Where, at the winged hour of death, Will my soul, heeding its command, soundlessly soar? No answer! Be silent, my restless mind, You cannot guess what eternity holds for us.
But like all of nature, drawn by our thirst to live, We call to you and wait, beautiful Spring! The joys of earth are so near to us, so familiar— The yawning maw of the grave so dark!
*****
Lilies of the Valley (Ландыши) is a poem written by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky in December 1878 while he was in Florence.
“I am terribly proud of this poem”, he wrote when enclosing a copy to his brother Modest. “For the first time in my life I have managed to write a fairly good poem, which moreover is deeply heartfelt. I assure you that although it was very difficult, still I worked on it with the same pleasure as I do on music.”
Когда в конце весны последний раз срываю Любимые цветы, – тоска мне давит грудь, И к будущему я молитвенно взываю: Хоть раз еще хочу на ландыши взглянуть.
Вот отцвели они. Стрелой промчалось лето, Короче стали дни, умолк пернатый хор, Скупее солнце нам дает тепла и света, И разостлал уж лес свой лиственный ковер.
Потом, когда придет пора зимы суровой И снежной пеленой оденутся леса, Уныло я брожу и жду с тоскою новой, Чтоб солнышком весны блеснули небеса.
Не радуют меня ни книга, нибеседа, Ни быстрый бег саней, ни бала шумный блеск, Ни Патти, ни театр, ни тонкости обеда, Ни тлеющих полен в камине тихий треск.
Я жду весны. И вот волшебница явилась, Свой саван сбросил лес и нам готовит тень, И реки потекли, и роща огласилась, И наконец настал давно желанный день!
Скорее в лес!.. Бегу знакомою тропою: Ужель сбылись мечты, осуществились сны?.. Вот он! Склонясь к земле, я трепетной рукою Срываю чудный дар волшебницы-весны.
О ландыш, отчего так радуешь ты взоры? Другие есть цветы роскошней и пышней, И ярче краски в них, и веселей узоры, — Но прелести в них нет таинственной твоей.
В чём тайна чар твоих? Что ты душе вещаешь? Чем манишь так к себе и сердце веселишь? Иль радостей былых ты призрак воскрешаешь! Или блаженство нам грядущее сулишь?
Не знаю. Но меня твоё благоуханье, Как винная струя, и греет и пьянит, Как музыка, оно стесняет мне дыханье И, как огонь любви, питает жар ланит.
И счастлив я, пока цветешь ты, ландыш скромный, От скуки зимних дней давно прошел и след, И нет гнетущих дум, и сердце в неге томной Приветствует с тобой забвенье зол и бед.
Но ты отцвел. Опять чредой однообразной Дни тихо потекут, и прежнего сильней Томиться буду я тоскою неотвязной, Мучительной тоской о счастье майских дней. — И вот когда-нибудь весна опять разбудит И от оков воздвигнет мир живой. Но час пробьет. Меня – среди живых не будет, Я встречу, как и все, черед свой роковой.
Что будет там?.. Куда, в час смерти окрыленный, Мой дух, веленью вняв, беззвучно воспарит? Ответа нет! Молчи, мой ум неугомонный, Тебе не разгадать, чем вечность нас дарит.
Но, как природа вся, мы, жаждой жить влекомы, Зовем тебя и ждем, красавица весна! Нам радости земли так близки, так знакомы,- Зияющая пасть могилы так темна!
The Queen Mum’s gorn and popped her clogs; the telly’s stuffed with Royal progs. I’ve heard a thousand epilogues now the old Queen Mum has popped her clogs.
The Queen Mum’s gorn and popped her clogs so let’s fish out our mourning togs and toast her name in small eggnogs. Our dear old Queen Mum’s popped her clogs.
The Queen Mum’s gorn and popped her clogs. Oh, Gawd, we’ll all go to the dogs, and princes will turn into frogs now the old Queen Mum has popped her clogs.
*****
The always delightful Margaret Ann “Maz” Griffiths published in a huge range of voices: formal sonnets of wildlife and of the illness that finally killed her, blank verse rants against warfare or injustice, sad songs of the female loss of innocence, flippant anti-establishment sarcasm about the British Royal Family…
‘Grasshopper’, her 350-page collection of poetry (and also one of her nicknames) was assembled by fans after her death and published by Arrowhead Press in the UK and Able Muse Press in North America. It is readable and rereadable. I post the occasional poem in this blog.
Look at the stars, she said. Just look how cold and bright! And most of them are dead though brightening the night. Time lives and dies like stars. The past is death of now. Impermanence that scars our fleeting human hour. The world inside a mind that dies when we die too leaves others left behind resigned without a clue. Forget me nots deceive and daisy chains depend on children who believe our world will never end.
*****
Janet Kenny writes: “The poet is very old and has been confronted inescapably with the mortality of all things.”
Janet Kenny left New Zealand to pursue a career as an operatic and concert singer in London, then settled in Sydney, Australia, where she worked in the anti-nuclear movement and jointly compiled, wrote and edited a book about the nuclear industry, Beyond Chernobyl, published by Envirobook in 1993. Janet lived for many years in Sydney with her husband and visiting currawongs. She now lives in Hervey Bay, Queensland, with visiting butcher birds, spangled drongos, ospreys, pelicans, assorted honeyeaters and flying foxes.
Her poems have been published in printed and online journals, including Avatar, The Chimaera, Folly, 14 by 14, Iambs & Trochees, The Literary Review, Mi Poesias, The Guardian, The Spectator, The New Formalist, The Barefoot Muse, The Raintown Review, The Shit Creek Review, Snakeskin, Lavender Review, Soundz ine, Victorian Violet Press, The Susquehanna Quarterly and Umbrella. Her work is in the collections The Book of Hope and Filled With Breath: 30 sonnets by 30 poets and in the Outer Space anthology, Cambridge University Press. She shared an anthology of bird poems, Passing Through, with Jerry H. Jenkins. She has received three Pushcart nominations.
A selection of her poems, and links to her poetry collections Whistling in the Dark (2016, Kelsay Books) and This Way to the Exit (White Violet Press), are on her website https://janetkenny.netpublish.net/index.htm
Darcy the diabetic cat has died His fans were told by email recently, A life remembered with no little pride.
The Fiat-driver now feels mortified To think because he simply failed to see Darcy, the diabetic cat has died.
Was this the fatal ninth and last he’d tried? Whichever, it will surely prove to be A life remembered with no little pride.
His poor squashed frame has been discreetly fried With all involved expressing sympathy; Darcy the diabetic cat has died.
The people in his road could not abide The flattening of such fine felinity, A life remembered with no little pride.
So, some of them sent cards, and others cried And stuck a sign upon his favourite tree: Darcy the diabetic cat has died, A life remembered with no little pride.
*****
Jerome Betts writes: “It’s always interesting when a line you read sparks off a quite unexpected result. In this case the line was in a friend’s email from Cambridge which mentioned in passing, as an item of local news, that Jasper the diabetic cat has died. Further details followed about one of those neighbourhood favourites known to many more people than its owners. Eventually, with Darcy substituted for Jasper (partly to secure a run of Ds and partly as I was at odds with a garden-molester of that name at the time) a villanelle took shape which was published inSnakeskinand subsequently in the anthology Love Affairs At The Villa Nelle (Kelsay Books, 2018) edited by Marilyn L. Taylor and James P. Roberts.”
Jerome Betts lives in Devon, England, where he edits the quarterly Lighten Up Online. Pushcart-nominated twice, his verse has appeared in a wide variety of UK publications and in anthologies such as Love Affairs At The Villa Nelle, Limerick Nation, The Potcake Chapbooks 1, 2 and 12, and Beth Houston’s three Extreme collections. British, European, and North American web venues include Amsterdam Quarterly, Better Than Starbucks, Light, The Asses of Parnassus, The Hypertexts, The New Verse News, and Snakeskin.
Your hours of tears won’t let you follow Those who’ve left you alone. Tonight your head lies on a pillow, Not beneath earth and stone.
The dead won’t be returning, Not for all of your pleas, Not for all your candles burning. Get up off your knees.
The deceased, removed from their rest Can take up all your hours Until your mind, denied a fair rest, Is deprived of its powers.
The road set before you is rocky and steep, So seize the night’s respite and drift off to sleep.
*****
J.D. Smith writes: “Though I do not sing, play an instrument or read music, I had Brahms’ Lullaby in the back of my mind while attempting to deal with various losses, and the poem roughly follows its tune. In adjusting to a new reality (I hesitate to say “move on” or “get over,” phrases that smack of empathic failure), sometimes all one can do is rest.”
J.D. Smith has published six books of poetry, most recently the light verse collection Catalogs for Food Lovers, and he has received a Fellowship in Poetry from the United States National Endowment for the Arts. This poem is from The Killing Tree (Finishing Line Press, 2016). Smith’s first fiction collection, Transit, was published in December 2022. His other books include the essay collection Dowsing and Science, and his seventh collection, The Place That Is Coming to Us, will be published by Broadstone Books in 2025. Smith works in Washington, DC, where he lives with his wife Paula Van Lare and their rescue animals. X: @Smitroverse
The shortest day is soon. Time for a pact. I don’t mean with Saint Lucy (Lucy’s day falls earlier in the month). But hey let’s meet and talk and counteract such darkness of the heart as coincides with winter’s formal start. We can read Donne’s ‘Nocturnal’, view its art, its provenance and what on earth it means. Location doesn’t matter. We have screens.
Nobody writes a poem now like that — not something so precise and well controlled. Of course, we hear what we are told: the world is round, a rhyme is flat, ‘poetics’ have moved on and these days no-one wants to write like Donne who was amazing, right? But dead and gone. Or not that dead. I’d say he’s still alive in stanza three and certainly in five.
They call Donne ‘metaphysical’, you know, a word still popular in jacket blurbs for living, writing bards where verbs (or verbiage) propel the flow but hard now to be sure whether they mean what Johnson meant. The more ‘meta’ you get with blurbs, the more obscure. When ‘metaphysical’ foretells a treat it might be true; it might be mere conceit.
But in ‘Nocturnal’, metaphor leans out and mystifies. It’s not the usual thing like glass or compasses or string. It’s nothing. No thing. Less than nowt. He says what he is not in several different ways. In fact, the knot of nothingness becomes his central plot. The poet in him can’t forget that ‘none’, his rhyme for ‘run’, echoes both ‘sun’ and ‘Donne’.
So he’s the sum of everything he feels: annihilated by the loss of one without whom he is not a man, just numb. And yet he still appeals to logic to make clear how dark existence is. Yes, she was dear. Each syllable recounts her loss, his fear, and this is now and then and now, since this both the year’s and the day’s deep midnight is.
*****
Helena Nelson writes: “In 1617 when, after the death of his wife, John Donne wrote ‘A nocturnall upon S. Lucies day, Being the shortest day’, St Lucy’s Day coincided with the winter solstice in the author’s hemisphere. Then they changed the calendar, and these days, Saint Lucy’s Day is 13 December. But the winter solstice falls over a week later (this year 21 December).
“Every year on the solstice, I think about John Donne’s solstice poem, every year it gets more apposite, since it is essentially about death. Last year, I did a formal online discussion about it, and I wrote an invitation using the form that is Donne’s, though obviously for a less serious purpose. It allowed me to think it through. I’m thinking about the poem again today, so here’s the invitation.”
Helena Nelson runs HappenStance Press (now winding down) and also writes poems. Her most recent collection is Pearls (The Complete Mr and Mrs Philpott Poems). She reviews widely and is Consulting Editor for The Friday Poem.
I miss believing that I’ll never die, Or is it that there won’t be a tomorrow? Both lines work out about the same: deny The day you’ll have to pay back what you borrow. It used to be I never went to bed A second night with any girl I found. No breakfast in those days–a smoke instead, Then out the door before she came around. Last night I passed a toppled garbage bin, Its liner sagging with a rat’s remains. He sank a little when I squinted in And seemed embarrassed by his greedy pains. And so much like a man, the way he sat Still in his death, and so much like a rat.
*****
Matthew Buckley Smith writes: “I wrote most of Dirge” (his first book of verse, winner of the 2011 Able Muse Book Award. – Ed.) “in a summer. I was wading through a bad depression, and having written almost nothing but free verse to that point, I set myself the challenge of writing one sonnet a day for the rest of the summer. ‘Youth’ is a survivor of that experiment, written while walking late at night through the campus of Johns Hopkins on the way to the apartment of the woman who is now my wife.”
Matthew Buckley Smith is the author of Midlife (Measure, 2024) and Dirge for an Imaginary World (Able Muse, 2012). He hosts the poetry podcast SLEERICKETS and serves as Poetry Editor of Literary Matters. https://www.matthewbuckleysmith.com/
Across a sun-lit pane, deft, unconcerned, a spider struts the steps of an old dance, a set design, in no part happenstance: and I again to sun and rune returned. Stumbling along, half blind, half deaf, half-learned, in yet a day of quarrel and circumstance, I turn from cluttered web to view askance night’s daughter, she who never can be turned.
Sleek spider dame with one plan, to consume, to suck the juice from each unwary fly, with no grand need to query or presume if there was meaning in your quarry’s sigh. Here, in the corner of my fog-filled room, Atropos grins, her scissors lifted high.
*****
Janice D. Soderling writes: “I don’t write much these days, preferring to use the shortening days to read. But I woke up this morning with the last two lines in my head, and knowing it was an ending to a sonnet, I proceeded to write the rest. Perhaps it asks too much of the reader. Perhaps it is a pretentious piece, of interest only to me. Never mind, I shall keep it, having poured three hours into it.”
Janice D. Soderling has published poems, fiction and translations in hundreds of print and online journals and anthologies over the years. Her most recent poetry collection is ‘Rooms and Closets‘ available at all online bookshops.
Form in Formless Times 