Rothko

black black black black black black
in tones of black and black on black
the canvases are tagged abstract
expressionist on every plaque
although the artist will attack
abstract and shun the word the lack
of it will not distract the claque
in black black black black black

brown brown brown brown brown
a message floats above the ground
serene reflective, and profound
a man who wound his own life down
red red red red red red red red
dead dead dead dead dead dead

Lament

A day or two ago I tried to quote
Camus on modern man: He defecates
and reads the Sunday papers I first wrote -
but what it should have been was “fornicates”,
and “Sunday” was my fantasy. So this
is what it all comes down to - thoughts of shits
and weekends with the Times invade a kiss-
kiss-fuck-fuck-bang-bang mind as age submits
his calling card, engraved, upon a bone-
white plate: a view ahead of weekly crossword
strugglings, and bits and scenes from well known
films, and scraps of other voices, overheard
as life retold: He grows old. I grow old,
and treasure all these things, and fear the cold.

Country Road
 

Neither philosopher, nor lusty fiend,
....A dull and mediocre dude,
I couldn't figure what it all might mean,
....Yet was no less a giant prude.

Brevity's the soul of wit;
But when I'm dead, who'll give a shit?
Since life is short, I'll use my breath
To mock that looming specter, Death.

Funeral Pre-planning
 

Frost's musings on fire and ice,
As an abstract discussion, is nice;
But the options, in practical terms,
Boil down to cremation or worms.

This is one of the saddest poems I know of, written in just such a way as to avoid being sentimental and saccharine, but emotionally impacting:

Death of a Son

(who died in a mental hospital aged one)

Something has ceased to come along with me.
Something like a person: something very like one.
And there was no nobility in it
Or anything like that.

Something there was like a one year
Old house, dumb as stone. While the near buildings
Sang like birds and laughed
Understanding the pact

They were to have with silence. But he
Neither sang nor laughed. He did not bless silence
Like bread, with words.
He did not forsake silence.

But rather, like a house in mourning
Kept the eye turned in to watch the silence while
The other houses like birds
Sang around him.

And the breathing silence neither
Moved nor was still.

I have seen stones: I have seen brick
But this house was made up of neither bricks nor stone
But a house of flesh and blood
With flesh of stone

And bricks for blood. A house
Of stones and blood in breathing silence with the other
Birds singing crazy on its chimneys.
But this was silence,

This was something else, this was
Hearing and speaking though he was a house drawn
Into silence, this was
Something religious in his silence,

Something shining in his quiet,
This was different this was altogether something else:
Though he never spoke, this
Was something to do with death.

And then slowly the eye stopped looking
Inward. The silence rose and became still.
The look turned to the outer place and stopped,
With the birds still shrilling around him.
And as if he could speak

He turned over on his side with his one year
Red as a wound
He turned over as if he could be sorry for this
And out of his eyes two great tears rolled like stones,
xxxxxxxxxxand he died.

- Jon Silkin

I've searched and searched, and this is probably the most depressing poem I've written. I posted it here a couple years ago. Some liked it, some thought it was OTT.

***

To the Woman I Love

How many years I've loved you, who cannot return
my love, how many tears have wet my broken bed,
like seeds sown in the darkness, where no stem is born,
but where the breath that speaks of love says love is dead,
and sounds like silence, and like depth, and solitude,
that faintly go and then as faintly come around
again, like silent blackbirds in a winter wood,
like violins and voices stilled and void of sound,

until there's no more counting, no more new amount
or number, and we just let go the hem of time
that shrinks and shrivels in the pitch it was made of,
and heart and mind forget what it had meant to count,
and can't conceive the point of meter or of rhyme,
and do not understand at all a word like love.

Poems written at twenty-six

To the floaters in my eye

Just let me die.

To the tinnitus in my ears

Please, no more years.

To the film that every morning coats my tongue

Woe! that I am young.

Aaron, Now this comes along!

This (#99) is one of my favorites posted in this thread!