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| "Hamlet's at Yorick's Grave" by Delacroix (1839) |
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Where are the bodies piling up?
We don’t smell crematoriums—
that would remind us too much of
Nazis. Therefore cold storage
is best, storage that's near stony
fields. We’ll be gardeners by and by.
We don’t smell crematoriums—
that would remind us too much of
Nazis. Therefore cold storage
is best, storage that's near stony
fields. We’ll be gardeners by and by.
Days past, we moved stones to
clear fields,
building up walls in the process.
building up walls in the process.
Days past, we planted corn with
squash—
now we remember why and how.
Where we could grow our corn in rows,
now stones from old walls mark our graves.
Where we could grow our corn in rows,
now stones from old walls mark our graves.
There aren't enough gravediggers.
There aren’t enough stone carvers.
There weren’t enough body bags,
and now we’re short of lead coffins.
There aren’t enough stone carvers.
There weren’t enough body bags,
and now we’re short of lead coffins.
Refrigerators hold the dead.
We might be gardeners by and by.
We might be gardeners by and by.
The news reports cemeteries
aim "to preserve the dignity
of the dead."* Kindness is heroic.
Gravediggers are heroic, too.
We imagine a gravedigger
handing Hamlet old Yorick's skull.
We don’t actually ask "where are
the skulls?" We’d rather sweep reports
of bodies under rugs, under turf,
both real and fake. Leave us in front
parlors of burials, dressed in
mourning. Let heroes turn the soil.
aim "to preserve the dignity
of the dead."* Kindness is heroic.
Gravediggers are heroic, too.
We imagine a gravedigger
handing Hamlet old Yorick's skull.
We don’t actually ask "where are
the skulls?" We’d rather sweep reports
of bodies under rugs, under turf,
both real and fake. Leave us in front
parlors of burials, dressed in
mourning. Let heroes turn the soil.
My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright.
If you quote, credit this page.
© 2020 Susan L. Chast
Please respect my copyright.
If you quote, credit this page.
© 2020 Susan L. Chast
I am glad, reading this poem, to be reminded to think about the dead, where their bodies are, so they arent just an increasing number on the screen. Thanks for this, Susan.
ReplyDeleteOh...this is so thoughtful 💜
ReplyDeleteThis just had to be written... and you've written it so well.. From this distance, it is so unbelievable what's going on in America. I do wish things will turn and the infamous curve decides to dip.
ReplyDeleteBoth chilling and beautiful. And the repetition of being gardeners by and by is so full of something I can't even name but it reverberates in my bones. thank you for saying what needs to be said.
ReplyDeleteI agree with Sherry, Sreeja and Rajani, Susan – it is a thoughtful poem, reminding us of the dead. An old friend of my husband died of corona virus, and he was distraught that he couldn’t go to the funeral. It’s chilling to think that, in some places, bodies have to be stored. I like the ‘We’ll be gardeners by and by’ and the middle stanza that’s all to do with planting and growing, and not burying, and the contrast of the following stanza.
ReplyDelete"Let heroes turn the soil." Policy-makers too. Twenty-first century America takes on this countenance, burdened by so many graves. Do we have as much empathy for the dead as we do for the living? I hope more. This pandemic has so many contrasts -- here in Florida, very little happens (though we come to find the state is preventing death stats from being released, we suppose to help the argument for premature reopening). But as Tom Friedman writes in the Times, with coronavirus, it's just chemistry, biology and physics. Grave matters coming this way, too. - Brendan
ReplyDeletethe refrain is chilling and also upstanding. swords into shovels, almost... ~
ReplyDeleteThis is chilling, Susan. A reminder of all who have died and yet will die. Never so much death in my lifetime....and pictures of refrigerated trucks and body bags shock and sadden me. I hope we never become immune to feeling...with the numbers of deaths added every day.
ReplyDelete