A sonnet addressing the dead -- another overplayed motif. But again this is handled well enough to overcome any objections on that basis. The believable, conversational tone makes this work. L9-11 really make it for me -- the honesty and almost philosophical calmness of the message in those lines expand the concept of the "unimprovable human race" past pessimism and despair. And of course the couplet is perfect.

David R.

While there are many fine sonnets on this forum at present, this one is easily my favourite so far.

Not only do I approve of the politics: "The human race is not / improvable" - "Your children haven’t turned out awfully well,/ but who expected it? You’re not to blame."

Exactly!

But I love the genre of letters to the dead, which has a long tradition, going back at least as far as the Egyptians:

"From the late Old Kingdom (about 2686-2181 BC) to the late New Kingdom (about 1550-1069 BC) there survive about fifteen letters written to relatives who had recently died."

I truly believe that one of the great tasks of poetry is to reconcile us to our deaths.

Alicia mentions Hardy as one of the great practitioners in this genre - and here's one with a twist in its tail:

Ah, are you digging on my grave

"Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? -- planting rue?"
-- "No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"

"Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?"
-- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"

"But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? -- prodding sly?"
-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.

"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say -- since I have not guessed!"
-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog, who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"

"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"

"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place."


– Thomas Hardy

"My dead" has a heavily plural connotation that doesn't mesh with the rest of the poem, though the attempt to avoid "my dear" shows good instincts. The couplet is solid and pleasing.

This grabbed me right from the first line (I did have to stop and make the 'flowers' a monosyllable) and kept me going right up to the last line so clever it must have been used before now, but surely not to such good effect. Congratulations to the writer on this fine little vignette.