This morning, Ray Bradbury is dead
and there is only soy milk at my coffee shop.
I do not know which to be more sad about,
that my body and I are suddenly uncomfortable
or that a man I have never met, far away,
has stopped breathing.
will end one…
Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden
read by Tom Hiddleston
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
(Source: hxcfairy, via heroidia)
The darkness peals
as each star is inserted. Truly
stars are harmless—I mean
they only hurt themselves. Did I
mention how hot it is?
Wind dips in like a hand, places
water on the nightstand
and then runs
the length of my right leg. I follow
my thoughts at a certain distance.
If you’re awake
and thinking what I am thinking,
you are dead wrong—
I will not disintegrate
amidst the siren’s multiple choice:
the flames doused, a light saved, possibly
locked away forever. Or, d)
all of the above. Fear is
such a dirty dress to wear,
wet across the abdomen
like a faded label that might have read
Fragile, way back when.
—Brett Eugene Ralph
Read this poem and others by Brett Eugene Ralph in Black Sabbatical.
dead anonymous tired
of getting mail addressed
to all those people I never was:
Nobody here knows my name.
This would never have happened in Havana.
She twirls it in her left hand,
a small red merry-go-round.
According to the white oval sticker,
she holds apple #4016.
I’ve read in some book or other
of four thousand fifteen fruits she held
before this one, each equally dizzied
by the heat in the tips of her fingers.
She twists the stem, pulls it
like the pin of a grenade, and I just know
somewhere someone is sitting alone on a porch,
bruised, opened up to their wet white ribs,
riddled by her teeth—
With her right hand, she lifts the sticker
from the skin. Now,
the apple is more naked than any apple has been
since two bodies first touched the leaves
of ache in the garden.
Maybe her apple is Macintosh, maybe Red Delicious.
I only know it is the color of something I dreamt,
some thing I gave to her after being away
for ten thousand nights.
The apple pulses like a red bird in her hand—
she is setting the red bird free,
but the red bird will not go,
so she pulls it to her face as if to tell it a secret.
She bites, cleaving away a red wing.
The red bird sings. Yes,
she bites the apple and there is music—
a branch breaking, a ship undone by the shore,
a knife making love to a wound, the sweet scrape
of a match lighting the lamp of her mouth.
This blue world has never needed a woman
to eat an apple so badly, to destroy an apple,
to make the apple bone—
and she does it.
I watch her eat the apple,
carve it to the core, and set it, wobbling,
on the table—
a broken bell I beg to wrap my red skin around
until there is no apple,
there is only this woman
who is a city of apples,
there is only me licking the juice
from the streets of her palm.
If there is a god of fruit or things devoured,
and this is all it takes to be beautiful,
then God, please,
eat another apple
From the book When My Brother Was an Aztec.