#poe

When the star dies, Its eye closes; tired of watching, It flies back to its first bright dream. ↗

— Dejan Stojanovic

#circling #death #dejan-stojanovic #dreams #eye

If I could find one word that would shudder the air like that frightened sob, that wordless prayer of my newly-born, who drew one breath, and with unopened eyes sank back into death; If I could break the world's cold heart with that cry, then this grief would lift and I could die. ↗

— Kenneth L. Patton

#grief #loss #poetry #death

WAKING AT NIGHT The blue river is grey at morning and evening. There is twilight at dawn and dusk. I lie in the dark wondering if this quiet in me now is a beginning or an end. ↗

— Jack Gilbert

#depression #life #poetry #silence #death

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. ↗

— W.H. Auden

#grief #poetry #death

But first, on earth as Vampire sent, Thy corpse shall from its tomb be rent: Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race; There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life; Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corpse. Thy victims are they yet expire Shall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers withered on the stem. ↗

— George Gordon Byron

#life #poetry #vampire #death

I went down not long ago to the Mad River, under the willows I knelt and drank from that crumpled flow, call it what madness you will, there's a sickness worse than the risk of death and that's forgetting what we should never forget. Tecumseh lived here. The wounds of the past are ignored, but hang on like the litter that snags among the yellow branches, newspapers and plastic bags, after the rains. Where are the Shawnee now? Do you know? Or would you have to write to Washington, and even then, whatever they said, would you believe it? Sometimes I would like to paint my body red and go into the glittering snow to die. His name meant Shooting Star. From Mad River country north to the border he gathered the tribes and armed them one more time. He vowed to keep Ohio and it took him over twenty years to fail. After the bloody and final fighting, at Thames, it was over, except his body could not be found, and you can do whatever you want with that, say his people came in the black leaves of the night and hauled him to a secret grave, or that he turned into a little boy again, and leaped into a birch canoe and went rowing home down the rivers. Anyway this much I'm sure of: if we meet him, we'll know it, he will still be so angry. ↗

— Mary Oliver

#poetry #tecumseh #death

some men never die and some men never live but we're all alive tonight. ↗

— Charles Bukowski

#life #poetry #death

I can't even make up a rhyme about an umbrella, let alone death and life and eternal peace. ↗

— Knut Hamsun

#poetry #death

My heart was full of softening showers, I used to swing like this for hours, I did not care for war or death, I was glad to draw my breath. ↗

— Stevie Smith

#my-heart-was-full #poetry #death

Soft you day, be velvet soft, My true love approaches, Look you bright, you dusty sun, Array your golden coaches. Soft you wind, be soft as silk My true love is speaking. Hold you birds, your silver throats, His golden voice I'm seeking. Come you death, in haste, do come My shroud of black be weaving, Quiet my heart, be deathly quiet, My true love is leaving. ↗

— Maya Angelou

#maya-angelou #poetry #death