In Repose Blog

William Ernest Henley. 1849–1903

A poem for today, with nods and hugs to my good friend Shannon.

Out of the night that covers me,
      Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
      I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
       My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
      Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
      Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
      How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
      I am the captain of my soul

William Everet Henley

At the age of 12 Henley became a victim of tuberculosis of the bone. In spite of this, in 1867 he successfully passed the Oxford local examination as a senior student. His diseased foot had to be amputated directly below the knee; physicians announced the only way to save his life was to amputate the other. Henley persevered and survived with one foot intact. He was discharged in 1875, and was able to lead an active life for nearly 30 years despite his disability. With an artificial foot, he lived until the age of 53. "Invictus" was written from a hospital bed.

Dies Slowly

Thanks goes to Laura Young, the dragonslayer, for discovering and sharing this poem on her site.

--Author Unkown.

Dies slowly he who transforms himself in slave of habit, repeating every day the same itineraries, who does not change brand, does not risk to wear a new color and doesn't talk to whom doesn't know.
Dies slowly he who makes of television his guru.
Dies slowly he who avoids a passion, who prefers black to white and the dots on the "i" to a whirlpool of emotions, just those ones that recover the gleam from the eyes, smiles from the yawns, hearts from the stumbling and feelings.
Dies slowly he who does not overthrow the table when is unhappy at work, who does not risk the certain for the uncertain to go toward that dream that is keeping him awake.
Who does not allow, at least one time in life, to flee from sensate advises.
Dies slowly he who does not travel, does not read, does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself.
Dies slowly he who destroys his self love, who does not accept somebody's help.
Dies slowly he who passes his days complaining of his bad luck or the incessant rain.
Dies slowly he who abandons a project before starting it, who does not ask over a subject that does not know or who does not answer when being asked about something he knows.
Dies slowly he who does not share his emotions, joys and sadness, who does not trust, who does not even try.
Dies slowly he who does not relive his memories and continues getting emotional as if living them at that moment.
Dies slowly he who does not intent excelling, who does not learn from the stones of the road of life, who does not love and let somebody love.
Let's avoid death in soft quotes, remembering always that to be alive demands an effort much bigger that the simple fact of breathing.

Only But A Moment

Only But A Moment

A sigh that whispers soft in the night
A child's smile of joy, pure and true
A touch that speaks without uttering a sound
A silent tear shed in sorrow
A glorious sunrise
Passion shared.

All in our lives, only but a moment.

Seek the moments, for they are what we share.
Pieces of you, pieces of me
Building together a bridge to span beyond
Only but a moment.

--Cathy Minerva

--Poem published with permission--

The Witches' Spell

Act IV, Scene 1 from Macbeth (1606)
-by William Shakespeare

A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron boiling. Thunder. Enter the three Witches.

1 WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.

2 WITCH. Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin’d.

3 WITCH. Harpier cries:—’tis time! ’tis time!

1 WITCH. Round about the caldron go;In the poison’d entrails throw.—
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights has thirty-one;
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot!
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

2 WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing,—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

3 WITCH. Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf;
Witches’ mummy; maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock digg’d i the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,—
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingrediants of our caldron.
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

2 WITCH. Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

"Spirits, Furious", a Poem by a World Trade Center Survivor

Rogue angels chiffon my nights, twelve arms flailing,

Those long whispers of limbs that curl a pale blood around my throat. 

They are maddened by my breath, as constant as God’s bare foot. 

 

I saw their burning flesh drop and felt the slow vibration of death,

A hum-drone known to the ages.

Jet fuel streamed under the lime-stripe of a firecoat, poof!

Then I ate them, I swallowed their stardust exploding on glass,

One hundred freight trains crashing.

 

Come tonight, I’ll cream your skin and feed you cowfoot and beans.

There will be a love song, then you could find my keys and my checkbook and maybe

In my room everything would feel new, like a red birth or a

Muscled and panting fish gill, or just green grass that serves as a bed

For dragonflies.

 

If not, we'll talk about it when I get there.

--Karen D. Rickenbach

(A World Trade Center survivor 56th floor, North Tower)

This poem won the Donald G. Whiteside Poetry Award, May 2002 and is posted here with permission from the author.

Bury Me With Soldiers

Bury Me With Soldiers

I've played a lot of roles in life; I've met a lot of men.
I've done a lot of things I'd like to think I wouldn't do again.
And though I'm young, I'm old enough to know someday I'll die
And to think about what lies beyond; beside whom I would lie.
Perhaps it doesn't matter much; still if I had my choice,
I'd want a grave 'amongst Soldiers when at last death quells my voice.
I'm sick of the hypocrisy of lectures of the wise.
I'll take the man, with all the flaws, who goes, though scared, and dies.
The troops I knew were commonplace, they didn't want the war;
They fought because their fathers, and their fathers, had before.
They cursed and killed and wept – God knows they're easy to deride.
But bury me with men like these; they faced the guns and died.
It's funny when you think of it, the way we got along.
We'd come from different worlds to live in one where no one can belong.
I didn't even like them all; I'm sure they'd all agree.
Yet I would give my life for them, I know some did for me.
So bury me with soldiers, please, though much maligned they be;
Yes, bury me with soldiers, for I miss their company.

--Author Unknown

For Whom the Show was Stopped

For Whom the Show was Stopped

A friend of ours,
rising silently
from where he
was seated,
walked down the
long side aisle in the
theatre of life
(and not to disturb the play)
left, closing
the door behind him.
The actors, seeing
his seat empty
(middle, first row)
Gave pause.
The director shouted,
"The show must go on!"
But, the actors
-deaf to his words-
solemnly pulled the
curtains, and shedding
their costumes for the night,
joined the audience,
to sit numbly in
the dark theatre
Watching a performance
that was not being performed-
clapping and laughing on cue-
listlessly moving
in their chairs;
Mocking attention-
all the while wondering
Why he (who was so cherished)
would leave before seeing
the last act.

--Jamie Sue Austin

(Jamie comments. "This poem is about a classmate in high school who died.  We had four out of a class of 90 pass away before I graduated, and two directly after. You wouldn't expect that in such a small town.")

It is always hard when young people die, no matter the reason. Jamie, your poem is lovely and touched my heart.

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