A Visit on All Saints Day
 

A Visit on All Saints Day


Hello. I’ve brought your favorite flowers again.
How is it going under there, my dead?
On this side, we’re no better off than when
you walked beside us. (Yes, I know I said
the same last year.) The human race is not
improvable. Ask any saint you meet.
We’ve gone to war again without a thought.
Our leaders shuffle bribes, our heroes cheat.
Your children haven’t turned out awfully well,
but who expected it? You’re not to blame.
They'll manage, and nobody burns in hell.
Goodbye for now. I’m always glad I came.
I make no promises about next year,
but one way or another, I’ll be here.


Comments:

A wonderfully unsentimental poem.

A Visit on All Saints Day

I chose this dispassionate, almost too-dry, one-way “conversation”, with its playful, witty ending, not only because of its excellent craftsmanship, but because of how it is able to disguise the mind-heart match-up under the mask of objectivity, in its matter-of-fact approach to the #1 theme of the 61 sonnets I received: the universal theme of death. Of course, there is nothing wrong per se with expressing feeling and sensibility in a sonnet, as long as it isn’t maudlin, mawkish or mushy.

Although Mr. Cassity describes it as “unsentimental” in the context of the definition of sentimental as “weakly emotional”, the sonnet nevertheless expresses a sentiment, in that, via the words, acts and gestures of the visitor, an attitude towards death -- and life -- is perfectly conveyed.

A very down-to-earth poem, pun intended.

This sonnet has been a favourite of mine for some time and I won't breathe a word, although I'm sure everyone will know who wrote it.

It's poignant, touching and funny and honest. It even slightly reminds me of Auden's letter to Byron.

All Saints is more central to my calendar than Halloween was when I was a sugary child. One false note to me. Heroes cheat. I earn a plenary indulgence every year, tending the graves, going to confession, and taking communion at All Saints. The indulgences are for friends. Three that people here would know are Tony Hecht and Mikey Donaghy and my Dad, author of the fifth chapter of Ploughshare. You needn't believe in indulgences to pursue them. It is a spiritual exercise. Whoever wrote this is a spiritual athlete, and I applaud.

Very fine sonnet.
The tone of wry acceptance is carried off perfectly.
Excellent closing with its unpromised promise: one way or another N will be back in the graveyard next year.

I'm not sure this is unsentimental. N is visiting the graveyard with flowers after all and is commemorating the fact in the form of a sonnet, which is elegiac by nature.

The message can be summed up as: "The human race is not/ improvable." Underlying this statement is an unspoken agenda that the human race should be improvable. In its fight to be unsentimental this sonnet betrays sentimentality.

Not that I'm averse to sentimentality.

Duncan

My favorite little touch in this one is the epithet "my dead." I think what rescues this from maudlin sentimentality is the line: "Your children haven’t turned out awfully well." Writing an effective graveside monologue such as this is not easy.

I agree with Kevin that the poem's strongest device is the double-take that L2 engenders, with the expected my dear shifting to my dead.

How is it going under there, my dead?

That's brilliantly witty.

It seems I am on an anti-expository title crusade during this bake-off. Once again I find the explicit scene-setting title too flat and deflating. I don't want a full frame before the pencil even touches the sketch-pad, and feel a title that is wittier would be more effective. In the end I sense that the plainspoken conversational tone of this, while wryly warm, needs to be laced with a bit more of the wit displayed in the line above.

Nemo

I'm very mixed on this one. I want to like it. Hell, I want to love it...but there are a few stumbling blocks for me.

I was immediately thrown off in the second line with "my dead." I suppose others may like it and find it cute, but I find it to be unforgivably unnatural. Who in the world would ever stand at a grave and call his or her beloved "my dead"? I know it's likely a play on "my dear", but for me it doesn't work. I almost stopped reading the poem there, actually...but I'm glad I didn't. There are some very powerful lines in here, especially L7 - L10. Those are brilliant, and exactly what I love to see in a sonnet like this.

With L11...I have to question the "and nobody burns in hell." The meter is a tad rockier than I'd like to have seen, and also I think it's a tad ironic (and not really in a good way) that the person above ground is saying that nobody burns in hell. I'm an atheist and even I can't make such a claim as an absolute. Especially to someone who is dead and would, presumably, be in a better position to judge. I'd rather see that line as something like: "They'll manage, though. I trust there is no hell?"

Overall, however, this is my favorite of the first four in the bakeoff. I think it's a good poem that could become a GREAT poem with very little work.

This certainly is unsentimental, and that quality is heightened by the fact that N has the accoutrement of a sentimental grave visit with the flowers. “my dead” is tremendous—a curveball on “my dear,” and one that, for me, establishes a kind of endearing link between the N and his or her dead…while remaining unsentimental. The only thing that rubs me the wrong way is the stretch on war, politicians and heroes. It almost goes off course there. We’re kind of taken out of the scene. It would be better if the world the two shared in an exclusive manner--things such as their children, a topic that admits the rest of the world as well yet remains intimate--ran straight through.

RM

I almost missed the wonderful pun at the end. The first time I read the sonnet, I confess I felt a tinge of disappointment. The poem had such a good premise that I felt slightly let down by the things chosen to tell the dead; I guess I was looking for more creative and interesting details than, “The human race is not improvable”, “Our leaders shuffle bribes”, etc. And in contrast to what others said about the lack of sentimentality, I felt the closing couplet was sentimental. But then I got the pun! It made the poem for me.

Geez, I missed that too, duhh.
My assessment of the poem has risen accordingly.
I wonder if a slight emphasis by way of a meter irregularity could call a bit more attention to it--?

But one way or another, oh, I'll be here.

Nemo

Heh. I remember this one. I love "my dead."

Suggestion: "How's it going" would sound more conversational.

I like this one too. "I know I said the same last year" ties in well with the close and "Ask any saint you meet" adds to the voice introduced with "my dead".

I agree that L7 and 8 create a bit of a flat spot in the middle but, overall, it's very good--a terse and sardonic reflection on world-weariness.

John

Oh, yes, the pun at the end makes the poem ... perfect.
Perfect graveside manner!

Not sentimental at all, but not ashamed to convey genuine feeling, which is a very different matter. I love the "my dead," with its hint of affection that endures--but accepts--the final separation. And I find the talk of war and current events realistic and believable: how else do we keep up with our loved ones if not sharing gossip, including the world's gossip?

What I find appealing about this sonnet, besides its premise and the mock sermonizing, is how deftly it achieves an everyday conversational tone while maintaining a seamless meter, without any strain in the language. The few metrical substitutions seem intended to match the context, for instance "Your children haven’t turned out awfully well." And, though plainspoken, there is a liveliness to the language, partly from unusual twists of the usual stock phrases for instance, "I’m always glad I came" and partly from the touch of wry humor here and there as in L2, "How is it going under there, my dead?" Well done!

Cheers,
...Alex

Spare and dry and well done. I wish there were fewer end-stopped lines, and that the L3/L4 enjambment were more artful, but it could probably be argued that all of the end-stopped lines contribute to the spare tone and conversational feel. The end-stopping is not a show stopper for me - I applaud the poem - but I think there's too much of it.

My favorite of the first four. Rather Hardy-esque (a lot of Hardy poems spoken over headstones...), though without Hardy's verbal texture. I think it could be tweaked on the level of diction for a few more verbal riches (such as "my dead") in spite of the flatness, but it would certainly be a serious Nemerov contender as is.

I have nothing to add to those who've expressed their affinity for this - the "my dead" is wonderfully wry and affectionate. When I read this in order with the others, I thought atsa sonnet.

Frank

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.