The Burial

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Paul Verlaine, “l’Enterrement,” c. 1865

Boy, there’s nothing quite like a burial
      for a jolly good time —
the little ditty which
     the dull gravedigger
whistles beneath his breath,
the way his pick-axe shines —
the way the trilling distant bell
     cuts through the air —
the hastily-mumbled prayer
from the dainty young priest
in his bone-white surplice.

The choirboy’s flute-like treble
has not a hint of girlish grief,
     a pure flute ascending,
and when, so soft and snug,
     the coffin slides down
into its perfectly-leveled hole,
and clods of earth are hurled
     with finality, to conceal
by bits the polished wood,
     the burnished brass,
with sod as soft as eiderdown,

why then, the whole affair charms me,
as we, for that lucky devil’s sake
dress up in that somber garb we keep
at the closet’s rear, against the day,
and the undertakers,
     who, never out of work,
plump out their jackets’ seams,
red-nosed in any weather
     from port and sherry.

In the final act,
     we stamp impatiently,
left foot, right foot, and left again,
the spun-out eulogies, clipped short
with sobs or sighs, or spun to spider
web ephemerality by distant relatives.

Nearest the grave, the spectacle
I most enjoy, is worthy of art:
hearts swollen to burst, brows topped
with self-important foreheads, tears dabbed
with significant handkerchiefs,
oh, look at them: the heirs!

 

 

 

A Vision, by Edwin Emerson

by Edwin Emerson

 Last night within the confines of my room,
     Half-lit to shield my over-tired eyes,
I saw distinctly, to my great surprise,
The outlines of an ancient, lonely tomb;
Moss-covered, framed by weeds — so apt to assume
     Rank shapes — which hid in part its proper size,
     While adding to its venerable guise;
And pall-like clouds intensified the gloom.
Alert, I scanned what name and date were there:
     And saw mine own, carved on the crumbling stone;
          The date read just five hundred years ago.
I woke, and thought — This vision would declare
     What shall be in the future, when, alone,
          The owl speaks wisdom, and the night winds blow.

From Edwin Emerson. Poems. 1901. Denver, CO: The Carson-Harper Company.

The Shipwreck's Grave

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Archias, The Greek Anthology, vii, 278

Why here, within the sea’s
ear-shot, have you buried me
in this godforsaken place
where the tide crashes
on the rocks below, and winds
echo the wrath of Poseidon
endlessly? Low surges
that never sleep, the groan
of tides coming in
and going out,
the hiss of salt spray:
it's all enough to drive one mad
for even though I am dead
in distant Hades, I hear it all.


If foot-treads come
and someone offers flowers
I would never know it,
for the ocean’s roar
drowns everything.

Don’t waste a prayer here:
Words are blown back
into your throat,
your utterance a moving mouth
without a thought behind it
for all I know.

My name was Theris,
and all you know of me, it seems,
is that the waves delivered me,
an eyeless corpse, fish-ridden,
after my father sent me
with dowry and serving maids
for an arranged marriage.

Now on this brine-salt hill
whose soil sprouts no flowers,
right next to the sea that killed me,
some stranger saw fit
to dig this grave,
and with a paper’s shroud
deposit my remains
into this noisy cacophony.

Oh, be assured, I joined
the lonely dead in Hades,
but here I walk about,
alone, unspoken-to,
two howling sea-shells glued
to my agonized ears.

Until the ocean dries
and the sea becomes
an object of literature and legend,
I shall have no repose.

Timon of Athens' Tombstone

by Brett Rutherford

     From the Greek Anthology

My name? My country?

None of your business!

Before you know it,

you too shall be dead.

Serves you right.

Heliodora, Dead!

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 476

1

Tears by the teacup, tears
     by the pail, tears
a pond, a lake, an ocean —
these the last offerings
in proof of love I send 

down through the earth,
through crevice, cave, and rock,
down as a torrent, nine days
a waterfall to Hades —

thee, Heliodora, I mourn.
Each tear I shed
     is like a nail, thrust
deep inside me. These words

I add to all your friends’
laments, your parent’s grief.
Since I come late,
I wash away salt-stains
your other lovers deposited
(no matter now! I would
embrace them, each and all!)

My piteous, unabated flow
will slake your need below,
for tears earn merit there.

2

Still in death are you dear
to me, Heliodora, lost
to me forever. Undying love
and longing return to me —
O anger, and the amnesia
of jealous rage, begone! —

as I append these lines
to that bare stone tablet
on which is scrawled,
     impermanent,
in dyes that do not etch:
Heliodora — Beloved.

When readers ages hence
repeat these lines, even
in tongues unknown,
will they have wings to cross
the ever-still Acheron?

O reader, weep!
O River of Death, carry
my words to Heliodora!

Alas, no more upon the earth
shall such a woman abide
if this one is not praised below.
Hades! Look upon her kindly!

3

Destruction has taken her
     from me, nor did
I clasp her dead body before
they wrapped the shroud
around her. No one told me! 

Destruction has taken her,
leaving us all above ground
with nothing but ashes,
ashes that could be anyone.
No scent of hair or neck-nape,
no hint of the oiled sheen
of skin adheres to dust.

Great Mothers below:
acknowledge your daughter.
Deeply she loved,
     and if too much
    and among too many,
the joy she gave and took
was always honest. Take
her in your bosoms, Mothers,

and plead her case
     to Hades, he
of the adamantine heart.
Let she, who is bewailed by us,
become Persephone’s hand-maid. 

To see her one more time
is not given to this lowly poet:
to know her among the bless’d
is all the boon I pray. 

We above, are half-shadows
already, worn with weeping.
Destruction has taken her.

Alas! Alas! for Heliodora!

 

 

Sweeping the Tombs

 by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Li Yü, Poem 11

So many trees above,
almost no sky. Lazy,
I linger alone in the hut
the caretaker lives in.
Ancient pines moan,
whisper my father’s name,
and his, and his.

This early April night
might go on forever. Warm now,
a moment later I am shivering.
Cold nights will soon be over.

The Feast of Qingming
ended just yesterday.
With my own hands I swept
the tomb of my father,
and his, and his.

Others swept clean of leaves
and sand and pebbles,
the graves of imperial uncles,
of consorts whose names
nobody remembers,
and of several dread dowagers
whose ghosts demanded
     extra incense
and more circling 'round
as the prayers went up.

Ancestors appeased,
the earth is free
to mark the end of Spring.

The out-of-focus moon
is its own ghost tonight.
Clouds roll, and down the slope
a breeze torments
the budding peach and apricot.

Who is impatient for summer?
And who, down there,
sits on a swing and chatters,
laughing and gossiping?

My heart is one with myself,
but for my land and its people,
ten thousands threads of thought
go out to who knows where
for who knows what response. 

Even the Son of Heaven
cannot find room enough
to untangle one small web
of one night’s thoughts.

Given the whole world
to unravel it, I still would not
have any idea
what I am supposed to do.

Those below earth
and in the sky, lend me
at least, if nothing else,
a calm demeanor.

 

September Sarabande

by Brett Rutherford

It is the night most singular,
alone of all the nights of the year,
when those who were loved
and those who truly loved them,
drift as ghosts in the grim dark.

Night-blooming jasmine smothers them,
as a blue moon makes blind their eyes.
Cruel fate torments them. No fingers
touch as, back to back, they dance
a silent sarabande, eyes to the ground.

The names they whisper, yearning,
are drowned by the night-sky’s wail,
as constellations from their dread
seducers flee, or from the wrath
of jealousy — even stars are denied
the company that most pleases them.

At dawn, they resume their places,
placid and cold beneath the ground,
side-by-side with detested partners,
head-to-foot with dreaded sires.

As burning sun warms up the stones
and the names and vows engraved
upon them, the dance is forgotten.
By name, by date, for all of time,
love’s crucifixion grinds on.

  

La sarabande de septembre

C'est la nuit la plus singulière,
seul de toutes les nuits de l'année,
quand ceux qui étaient aimés
et ceux qui les aimaient vraiment,
dérivent, fantômes dans l'obscurité sinistre.

Le jasmin nocturne les étouffe;
une lune bleue aveugle leurs yeux.
Le destin cruel les tourmente.
Pas de doigts toucher comme,
dos à dos, ils dansent une sarabande
silencieuse, les yeux baissés.

Les noms qu'ils chuchotent, désireux,
sont noyés par les gémissements
du ciel nocturne, tout comme
les constellations lointaines fuient
les ruses d'un séducteur,
ou la colère de jalousie
— même les étoiles sont refusées
les compagnons qui leur plaisent le plus.

A l'aube, ils reprennent leurs places,
placide et froid sous terre,
côte à côte avec des partenaires détestés,
cap à pied avec des parents redoutés.

Alors que le soleil brûlant
réchauffe les pierres
et les noms et vœux qui y sont gravés,
la danse est oubliée.

Par nom, par date, pour toujours,
la crucifixion de l'amour continue.