Lyrics are poems, right, Bob?
Here's an L. Cohen lyric that empties the soul...


Diamonds In The Mine

The woman in blue, she's asking for revenge
The man in white -- that's you -- says he has no friends
The river is swollen up with rusty cans

And the trees are burning in your promised land
And there are no letters in the mailbox
And there are no grapes upon the vine
And there are no chocolates in the boxes anymore
And there are no diamonds in the mine

Well, you tell me that your lover has a broken limb
You say you're kind of restless now and it's on account of him
Well, I saw the man in question, it was just the other night
He was eating up a lady where the lions and Christians fight

And there are no letters in the mailbox
And there are no grapes upon the vine
And there are no chocolates in the boxes anymore
And there are no diamonds in the mine

(You tell them now)

Ah, there is no comfort in the covens of the witch
Some very clever doctor went and sterilized the bitch
And the only man of energy, yes the revolution's pride
He trained a hundred women just to kill an unborn child

And there are no letters in the mailbox
Oh no, there are no, no grapes upon your vine

And there are, there are no chocolates in your boxes anymore
And there are no diamonds in your mine
And there are no letters in the mailbox
And there are no grapes upon the vine
And there are no chocolates in your boxes anymore
And there are no diamonds in your mine

Two of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems are rather depressing, though the fact that they are so good is a countervailing force that cheers me up. The second of these in particular is quite wonderful.




The Heart asks Pleasure – first –
And then – Excuse from Pain –
And then – those little Anodynes
That deaden suffering –

And then – to go to sleep –
And then – if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor
The liberty to die –


**

Finding is the first Act
The second, loss,
Third, Expedition for
The "Golden Fleece"

Fourth, no Discovery --
Fifth, no Crew --
Finally, no Golden Fleece --
Jason -- sham -- too.

Nag


xxxxxIt

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxdoesn't

xxxxxxxxxmatter

Perhaps my favorite poet to be depressing is George Crabbe; as, for instance, he is in The Village. Far from romanticizing rural swains, his poem is the antithesis of the Idyll. A few excerpts.

The village life, and every care that reigns
O'er youthful peasants and declining swains;
What labour yields, and what, that labour past,
Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last;
What form the real picture of the poor,
Demand a song — The Muse can give no more ...

Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease,
Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please;
Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share,
Go look within, and ask if peace be there:
If peace be his — that drooping weary sire,
Or their's, that offspring round their feeble fire;
Or her's, that matron pale, whose trembling hand
Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand ...

Oft may you see him when he tends the sheep,
His winter charge, beneath the hillock, weep;
Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow
O'er his white locks and bury them in snow;
When, roused by rage and muttering in the morn,
He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn.

"Why do I live, when I desire to be
At once from life and life's long labour free?
Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away,
Without the sorrows of a slow decay;
I, like yon withered leaf, remain behind,
Nipt by the frost, and shivering in the wind;
There it abides till younger buds come on,
As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone;
Then, from the rising generation thrust,
It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust...

Thus, groan the old, till by disease oppressed,
They taste a final woe, and then they rest.

Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor,
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door;
There, where the putrid vapours flagging, play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;
There children dwell who know no parents' care;
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there;
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forsaken wives and mothers never wed;
Dejected widows with unheeded tears,
And crippled age with more than childhood-fears;
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they!
The moping idiot and the madman gay.

Here too the sick their final doom receive,
Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve,
Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow,
Mixed with the clamours of the crowd below;
Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,
And the cold charities of man to man:
Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide,
And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride;
But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh,
And pride embitters what it can't deny.

Say ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;
Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance
With timid eye, to read the distant glance;
Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease
To name the nameless ever-new disease;
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain, and that alone can cure;
How would ye bear in real pain to lie,
Despised, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath,
Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?

Such is that room which one rude beam divides,
And naked rafters form the sloping sides;
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,
And lath and mud is all that lie between;
Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives way
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day:
Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,
Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile.

But soon a loud and hasty summons calls,
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls;
Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All pride and business, bustle and conceit;
With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe,
With speed that entering, speaks his haste to go;
He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and physic in his eye;
A potent quack, long versed in human ills,
Who first insults the victim whom he kills;
Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy bench protect,
And whose most tender mercy is neglect.

My Missing Muse

Asking her to sing again
makes my words mere wind
that is yet to move again
as if I've somehow sinned.

And then when my words move again
they barely rise as sound
and I invoke my Muse again
who’s nowhere to be found!

For the Ten Billionth Time

We're born, we live, we die, we're dust.
It isn't just, or unjust, just
the way it is, and that is it.
We're all wormfood. Who gives a shit?

Dark Quatrain

The chamber’s mouth turns things around,
six shots, six echoed blasts rebound
to balance out each last affront
against ourselves. We seem to hunt;

foregoing words, our shots resound.
The chamber’s mouth turns things around,
tongue-hammering hollow points, a ton
till justice is seen to be done.

The Wild West turned into law,
on any thief, a man may draw,
the chamber’s mouth turns things around,
the loser’s voice is all but drowned.

The tension on the schoolboy heightens
until his trigger finger tightens
and bully falls dead on the ground,
the chamber’s mouth turned things around.

f

Impressive, Erik.

The saddest things ever written were put to song. Here are three VERY sad and ultimately depressing works:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kSrV_CubiQ

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iN9CjAfo5n0

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P3dapDTDJzk

The Gary Moore (last link, with the amazing Bob Daisley - who composed most of Ozzy's first album and didn't get credit, thanks to Sharon Osbourne) is particularly sad. And he was an incredible songwriter and guitarist, who went virtually unnoticed.

If I should die

I shall try not to die. This is a given.
Part of the basic programme of instruction
Built into me with the accreting cells
At the beginning.

But I will have to in the end. Things do.
Meanwhile I try from time to time to guess
How it will come and what will happen, after
The lights go out.

I don’t do souls. I work in certainties
Although I wouldn’t rule out altogether
The interesting possibility.
One never knows.

I live alone, along with a small dog.
If I am taken unexpectedly
He won’t know how to jury-rig a flag
Or use the phone.

I don’t believe he’ll grieve. He’ll whine a bit
When he wants out. He’ll feel the need for food.
My immobility will represent
A broken promise.

Flesh will cool, stiffen, soften, become meat
And deliquesce into the irresistible.
Dog will decide I have at last provided
And will partake.

When famine follows feast, he will succumb;
Probably at my side. Nature, who wastes nothing
Will send in other, smaller, needy things
To tidy up.

However the end ends – Bailiffs, Police –
We will be waiting in the dusty dark;
A rough pile of assorted spillikins
And a hairy biscuit.

Ann, you never cease to amaze me. WOW.

Ann, wonderful poem indeed. It caused me to investigate whether a dog would indeed eat its owner, and you will be eerily cheered to know that your poem is factually accurate.

Depressing or just the way it is.
 

One day the light will just go out.
Everything that happened before
will be as futile as a shout
behind a soundproof door!

Thank you, Rogerbob.

I was pretty sure I had the truth of it when I wrote of it, but a little extra evidence never goes amiss.

But me? And my dog? "Well", as Larkin says, "we shall find out".

It makes you wonder whether it only occurs to them after you die, or they've actually been eyeing you for years and mentally salivating at the prospect.

*

By the way, my "Resumé" poem posted above is one of the Poems of the Week in Light.

I clicked on "Light" and that, too, led me to the dogstruth...

Oops. Try again.

The Size of Things

Things get smaller as we age,
As verified when we return
To childhood’s home—too small a stage,
Too cramped for anyone to learn

A mother tongue, a social grace,
To ride a bike, to add a sum,
But every place remains in place
And states its earthly, firm I am:

A once-big desk at once-big school,
A shrunken church, a shrunken store,
An oceanic backyard pool
Diminished at its bluegrass shore.

So here our letters were addressed
Once we had left for brighter lights,
Which we’ve since seen, and aren’t impressed.
The old, familiar smallness blights

The capitals of foreign lands,
Stunts their mountains, tames their wilds.
Repetition comprehends
Our making love, and what it yields.

Such secrets as exist are bared,
And after some score years are done
We’re full of time and stand prepared
To face the world to come, or none.

I knew a retired man in the nearby town of Brooks, Maine, who "died in the saddle" with a pay - for - play woman who he hooked up (no pun intended) on Craigslist. He died of a heart attack from an overdose of bought - on - the - Internet (i.e., non - prescription) Viagra.

The "lady" discretely vamoosed down I - 95 to her home in New Jersey. It was late winter, and the decedent was left locked up in his rural house with two German shepherd dogs and three cats.

About 10 days passed before anybody called on him. Yes, indeed, a dog will eat his deceased master. But, the cats also participated. A friend of mine who knew him well was called in by the Sheriff to identify the remains. Though my friend had hunted and butchered deer for 40 years, this was the "grossest thing he ever saw".

For some strange reason, his estate could find no buyers for the house. It was burned, and the land sold a few years later. The man happened to be a retired sheriff deputy from western New York state with old Mob connections.

There is a moral here ... several, in fact.

Thank you, Douglas. It always makes me happy when people read my stuff and say "true, dat". I am still actively engaged in the eternal search for Truth, but I like to tackle Reality along the way, to keep my hand in as it were.

Perhaps it's unduly British, or wimminly, of me to ask, but do you know what happened to the animals afterwards?

I had wondered about the fate of the animals myself (might chalk it up to raw curiosity, ignorant as I am of wimminly).
That aside, I cannot forbear to compliment you, Ann, on a truly praise-worthy poem. A curious side-effect of it, or proof of its resonance rather: the prospect it describes came into my head throughout the day when I least expected. I found I could never be bored...

Though worked to death, bored I was not--
I had your poem's chow for thought
And chewed on it a lot through toil.
Sustaining me, it did not spoil.

Erik, one of the things I hope to find in others' poems is what I call "head-food"; I am delighted that you have found it in mine.

They were dehydrated, as they had drunk up their water from their bowls, and could not get out of the house to find water. They were treated at a local animal shelter, and discretely adopted out. After all, they had done no wrong, considering their circumstances. All of them had been well cared for by their owner.

The man who died had no local relatives. He had a rich aunt in Florida who was about 90. This whole event did not make the newspapers, as it would have sullied Maine's reputation as "Vacationland".

I would gladly take a vacation in a district so enlightened. Thank you, Douglas; that made me happy.

These are all wonderful.
Here's my 2 cents' worth, from my last book:

LIMITS OF MY KNOWLEDGE

Along the beach the footsteps wend.
I do not know where things will end.

You found yourself another friend.
I do not know why things must end.

Researchers tell us time can bend.
I do not know when things will end.

The plots of all the movies blend.
I do not know how things will end.

I've seen the way my white cells trend.
I only know that things will end.

PS: I think Ann distinctly wins!
I've always figured that if I died alone and nobody noticed, I was cat food.

I wish I had something to contribute. I just want to say how much I'm enjoying this thread. (Perhaps I have a strange sort of mind.)

These are tough acts to follow, no doubt. Yet I fancy this Kyrielle is sufficiently dark anyway.

Birds cease to fly, dark has begun
that waits no more for any sun,
that wrests warm life from fingertip:
Death, with his finger to his lip.

The dark world where the race shall die
leers in at windows, turning spy,
hisses in shivering winds that nip.
Death, with his finger to his lip

mutes all the voice, benumbs the breath,
the wayfarer succumbs to death
upon the tail-end of the trip,
Death, with his finger to his lip.
s

The River Children Come of Age

Those first years we lived above the river,
Christ, we were insatiable,
screwing our heads off in the kitchen,
on that floor you stenciled yellow,
and gave no thought to children
or the future, or the dead;

and, indeed, the dead
in time came to the river,
and the ghosts of children,
demanding and insatiable,
calling for that yellow
kitchen

within this new six-burner steel kitchen
where everything that lives is dead,
and a silent cat stares through slits of yellow,
and its owners fear the river;
and only the night is insatiable,
and there are no children;

and the friends who laughed like children
as we caressed each other’s spouses in the kitchen,
six of us, one Christmas night, stoned and insatiable,
they are all dead, those others, dead;
the last one buried somewhere upstate near a river
last October, on a day the red and yellow

leaves made crazy patterns like that yellow,
red and green linguini we hungry children
hung to dry above the river
in a whirling, smoke-filled kitchen;
the lights of passing barges glinting off the dead,
flat, cold and bottomless water, insatiable

for everything that one time seemed insatiable;
and eventually the skin will yellow
and the nerves below the knees feel dead,
and we are again children,
huddled in the kitchen,
shades pulled against the river

as a low, late sun tints the kitchen chrome and yellow;
slanting off the river, crying that the dead
are all insatiable; and that there are no children.

Too well-crafted to be depressing, Michael. It gives a little too much delight.

Too well crafted? Oh, I can fix that.

Michael, don't un-craft this part


for everything that one time seemed insatiable;
and eventually the skin will yellow
and the nerves below the knees feel dead,
and we are again children,
huddled in the kitchen,
shades pulled against the river

it's depressingly good

If bad is sad
then this poem's
a tragedy

Scourge

I am myself my own havoc and pain,
look on all sides for some respite in vain.
d

19th July 1944

That was the day when there was too much sky.
Nobody came to get her out of bed
and when she went by herself to the window
yesterday’s everything had disappeared.

Everybody was busy and shouting
and when at last the feet came on the stairs
something inside insisted she should run
across the room and jump back into bed.

Someone came in and sat down on the bed
and said the little boy across the road
wouldn’t be coming over for a while.
He and his Mum had had to go away.

He wanted her, they said, to have Blue Bear
to keep for him. But Blue Bear had got wet
although it wasn’t raining and he smelt
of the fireplace first thing in the morning.

Alone again, she went back to the window.
How odd of Raymond, when he went away,
to take his house with him but leave Blue Bear.
She didn’t like that there was too much sky.

Ann, you ripped my heart out on Saturday morning with this ‘Vengeance weapons' (‘Vergeltungswaffen’) poem. You get the child's perspective just right.

Wow, Ann, you've disproved your theory that a poem can be too well-crafted to be depressing. It's the extraordinary craft that brings the emotion of this poem home.

Call of Duty [A Rondelet x 2]

In smoky chambers
was where their stars and plaques were dealt.
In smoky chambers
their errant raid slew honest neighbors
swifter than thought, the point man felt
threatened, loosed leaden death that dwelt
in smoky chambers.

In smoky chambers
they brought their 'man down' who was felled
in smoky chambers.
Iron-hearted heroes in their numbers,
they formed deep rows, all seen to melt
for him whose widow wailed and knelt
in smokey chambers.
g

The Bottom

I'm down here at the bottom,
looking up, I see no light;
my optimism's faded
and I've lost the will to fight.

Nha. Never mind.