Death Came to Me Last Night...

In recognition of today being Halloween, I thought I would post one of my more somber (almost macabre) poems.  It features Death, with all his persuasive charms and hidden terrors.  I wrote it at a very introspective moment (during a bout of insomnia), while considering how dying can be viewed with either horror or longing, depending on what someone has to live for.  I hope that it makes you think, and that you come to the conclusion that I did - that life offers enough for all to spurn Death's advances when he asks us to join him before our time runs out.

Death came to me last night,
and oh, I could naught but stare!
‘Stead of what I thought might,
what visage greeted me there!
 
He stood not in a shroud,
but in a plain, simple cloak,
not drifting in a cloud,
but walking as other folk.
 
The scythe he carried not,
only an untitled book.
“The Book of Life,” I thought,
but I did not dare to look.
 
He towered not o’er me,
but near level with my height,
and Death’s face I could see –
oh, what a puzzling sight!
 
His features were pleasant,
his smile welcoming, warm.
His face held no portent,
no violence was in his form.
 
Yet, looking in his eyes,
I knew surely he was Death –
a coldness beyond guise
that fast stole away my breath.

The cold of deepest space,
yet the beauty of the sea,
hid beneath gentle face
and gazed out, blue, towards me.
 
He spoke and beckoned me,
and extended his free hand,
“Come with me now to see
the wonders within my land.”
 
The best of salesmen,
oh, how persuasive was he!
The visions he did lend
made me want to go and see.
 
He opened up his book,
and with a skeletal quill,
invited me to look
and therein my name to fill.
 
Parchment, yellowed and dry,
‘cross the pages drifted sand,
but this caught not my eye,
and I took the pen in hand.
 
Then thoughts of what Death lacked
restored curiosity.
I asked, not counting tact,
how he came thus garbed to me.
 
“Tonight I come gently,
for your sand has not run out.
But, oh, why go slowly?
Join me on my evening route!”
 
He opened a portal
and urged me with him to come
where could go no mortal.
Forth called the rattle and drum.
 
But I could not turn back
if I stepped over that rim;
in it showed his soul, black,
and I shrunk way from him.

Then, shaking slow his head,
he stepped in and disappeared;
leaving behind the dread,
taking the beauty I feared.

Now, I know he’ll return
on a not-too-distant day,
but now life’s candle burns
and choice holds my death at bay.

~David Jamison~

Walt Whitman Award

Last night I submitted my first book-length manuscript of poetry (many of the pieces have been posted on here) to a contest for publication!  It is through the Academy of American Poets' Walt Whitman Award.  Really hoping I win it!

A Psalm of Life

    This poem was written by my poet hero, Longfellow, in the hardest point of his life.  His wife was burned to death in an accident, and he was so badly injured trying to save her that he couldn't attend her funeral.  After years of despondent sorrow for his loss, he finally chose to toss off the dark abyss of his depression, and rose to the heights of heaven in his timeless, inspired declaration that the soul cannot die, lifting us with him in the process.

 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,— act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

 

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~

Part Two: Hope's Triumph

Here is the second half to my previous post.  As tempting as it is, the human heart was never meant to close when hurt, only to open wider and seek out a healer.

I opened my heart
and it broke apart,
so the doors of my soul
quick covered the hole.

Better to seal in, it seemed,
my pain with all I dreamed.
Better to be full numb
than have love-pain to come.

Pain cried "keep out"
with agonizing shout.
Pierced to the very core,
I wanted love - no more!

But spring follows cold,
and faced by love so bold,
as day chases night
there came to me a light.

My bitterness slowly ebbs
as you pierce the webs
and dust that fills my tomb;
you shine through the gloom.

A crack fills the air!
My heart's covering doth tear.
I step out of self-made crypt,
and my chains off do rip.

You've opened my soul,
uncovered and healed the hole.
My heartbeat doth begin
and I start to love - again.

Part One: Glass Heart

This is the first half of an intertwined pair of poems.  It is pain that brought about this one, and healing that bore the second.  But without the injury, there could have been no recovery.

How can a heart so open
be so empty?
Welcoming the universe,
then watching it flee.

A glass tear trickles down,
a flood stopped at its start.
A wound, a yearning, an ache;
each from a broken heart.

Oh, my heart was opened wide,
and that is far the worse:
you cannot break a heart
unless it's opened first.

~David Jamison~

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

I saw this poem this morning and was inspired!  It is so true, our loved ones are not truly lost!

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

~Mary Elizabeth Frye~

Realization

This past weekend I was at an inspirational conference.  While listening to one of the speakers share the path that life had taken them on, I came to an realization that often my greatest trials have been my greatest blessings, steering me away from what I want, and toward what I need.

Realization

The journey and the pain
are the soul-cost to gain
all that you never sought,
but what God for you bought!

What I could not foresee,
Christ loving gave to me.
Now who can I serve,
give the gift I didn't deserve?

Oh, all that God has planned -
far more than my selfish demand!
Far less than the world cries for,
far less, but so much more!

~David Jamison~

Fly!

I am putting together a manuscript to submit to a contest for the publication of a first book of poetry.  This has naturally put my thoughts on poetry a lot of late, which will hopefully be reflected in more frequent posts here.
While typing up my poems (I handwrite almost all of them first, it seems to help the words flow better), I found this short piece, written for a friend at a crossroads of their life.  I hope it inspires you to follow your dreams, spread your wings, and fly!

You’re questioning your hopes,
and doubting all your dreams –
for nothing is quite sure,
or ever as it seems.

But dreams were made for living,

and joy for being found,
so, amidst your giving,
keep happiness around.

You were not designed
with failure as an end;
begin the dance of faith,
and light will be your friend.
 
You can reach any goal
‘pon which you set your eye;
you were born for greatness,
so follow your dreams – and fly!

~David Jamison~

The Touch of the Master's Hand

This poem has had a great and lasting impact on my life.  Both from my love of violins, and my musings about the idea of self-worth and inherent eternal value, this poem strikes a cord anew with me every time I read it.  I invite you to read it, and open your heart to the inspired message: that your value is far above what you or others believe, and it only takes the "touch of the Master's hand" to bring that value to the surface.

’Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer

Thought it scarcely worth his while

To waste much time on the old violin,

But held it up with a smile:

“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried,

“Who’ll start the bidding for me?”

“A dollar, a dollar”; then, “Two!” “Only two?

Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?

Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;

Going for three—” But no,

From the room, far back, a gray-haired man

Came forward and picked up the bow;

Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,

And tightening the loose strings,

He played a melody pure and sweet

As a caroling angel sings.

 

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,          

With a voice that was quiet and low,

Said, “What am I bid for the old violin?”

And he held it up with the bow.

“A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?

Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?

Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice,

And going, and gone!” said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried,

“We do not quite understand

What changed its worth.” Swift came the reply:

“The touch of a master’s hand.”

 

And many a man with life out of tune,

And battered and scarred with sin,

Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,

Much like the old violin.

A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine,

A game—and he travels on.

He’s “going” once, and “going” twice,

He’s “going” and almost “gone.”

But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd

Never can quite understand

The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought

By the touch of the Master’s hand.

 

~Myra Brooks Welch~