[Douglas G. Brown]

Originally Posted by Aaron Poochigian

I have been amazed by the quality of the poems posted on this thread (and by its popularity). Many Ancient Greek poets assert that song/poetry, along with wine, is the only way of escaping the misery of human life. The poems on this thread serve that purpose in the very act of talking about the misery and unfairness of human life.

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.

[Douglas G. Brown]

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.

[William A. Baurle]

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

[William A. Baurle]

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.

[Aaron Novick]

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.

[Jim Moonan]

Aaron, Now this comes along!

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

[Martin Parker]

With your constant splitting head
How come you read so much in bed?

Or is it done to hide your stress
At waiting till I detumesce?