Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion
Weekly Poetry Stuffage
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Week 141 (October 15-22). Poems. Topic: Morgue.
HOMECOMINGHe went away one summer’s day
And how his mother mourned him
But into her arms he shortly will come
For Christopher Robin’s gone home
His mother cried as he bade her goodbye
And left with the clothes he was wearing
No more need she wait, alone by the gate
For Christopher Robin’s gone home
The home they once made has gone to decay,
The memories covered in dust
But together they’ll lie, alone in the night
For Christopher Robin’s gone home
She’s resting at last in a valley unnamed
Where past and present are really the same
A small plot of ground, a tree and a mound
And Christopher’s gone now to join her
Oooooooooooh, nice topic!! I'm feeling some inspiration for this one . . .
Hi Al. Yep, I'm a brand spanking newbie. Love what you're all doing and wanted to play too :)
It was meant to be about the death of childhood, with Christopher Robin as a metaphor...but I can see how it comes across as morbid ;)
Here's my poem. Its on the darker side. I hope you enjoy.Goodbye
I look side to side,
And see stainless steel drawers.
Too perfect and neat,
To be hiding such horrors.
The room is deprived,
Of warmth and light.
For such a room,
The feeling is right.
A nervous chill,
Goes down my spine.
In this awful place,
I am anything but fine.
I walk down the room,
Scouting for drawer 43.
A sorrow filled groan,
From what I had come to see.
There she was...
There she was...
There she was...
Through the white cloth,
I saw a pale face.
I yearned for red cheeks,
Covered by white lace.
There she was...
There she was...
There she was...
Tears welled up.
Mouth turned dry.
Why did she,
Have to die?
There she was...
There she was...
There she was...
I looked around.
Drawers galore.
Countless lives,
Are no more.
There she was...
There she was...
There she was...
I pulled back the cloth,
To say my farewell.
I kissed her cheek,
Her soulless shell.
There she was...
There she was...
There she was...
I pulled out a gun.
Readied the lever.
To be with her,
This is goodbye forever.
There we were...
There we were...
There we were...
Yeah... That was the goal.
Don't joke. I'm not nearly a good enough writer to be able to bring out such emotions. It has a good ending though.
The guy could be forever with the one he loved. That's a pretty nice ending if you ask me.
Great poem Thomas! You sent a shiver right down my spine. Love the emotion. I think you picked a perfect style to convey your idea. Well done!
Thanks. If you want to be cheered up, I have a poem typed up in my folder. Read the first one. Not the second one. The second one is sad and depressing too.
Ryan wrote: "Great poem Thomas! You sent a shiver right down my spine. Love the emotion. I think you picked a perfect style to convey your idea. Well done!"Sorry! I didn't notice your comment. Thanks for the compliment! I have been changing my style to suit my poetry better.
Well... I made it up on the spot. It only took me twenty minutes, so I didn't expect it to be very good.
Oh! Sorry Ryan!I really liked your poem. Winnie the Pooh was one of my favorites growing up.
Okay...here's what I wrote during my break. Now, back to work! :DSeeing You and Me
by SheBlogger
Woke up in darkness
In complete silence
It felt cold…so cold
But felt no presence
Till I was pulled out
And then I heard you
Blinded by the light
I couldn’t see you
Hearing you cry
In anguish and fright
I tried to get up
With all my might
That’s when I saw you
Wailing over my body
Next to the coroner
Who’s about to cut me
Excellent, SheBlogger! Vivid and unsettling.
Wow! That's a very interesting take on the topic! I was pondering doing something similar, but I lacked the courage to do it properly.
Alex (Al) wrote: "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!"Hahaha, I knoww. I miss you guys :(
Just been dealing with a lot of stuff. My visits to goodreads are short, mostly to check groups I moderate and whatnot.
I need to try to come by more often!! Just know that I love you guys to death. :)
What Need Have We For Morgues?
©2012 Paula Tohline Calhoun
(for my beloved parents)
_______________________________________________________
"The mind is a morgue."
Cease and Desist
The body is a temple."
~~~Shaunna Harper
_______________________________________________________
"Cremation," said my father, it was his desire.
But with an added proviso - "unless there is
a more frugal manner to dispose of waste."
“You have been told what I believe:
What you see is not who I am. Thank God!
I am more and less, above and beyond, past
and present. I am a created one in human fabric.
“Fabric is friable, fades, is gone in time, as fast
and as slow as the Creator wills. I am some-soul,
I am not some-thing. Not one but many who have
left upon me the imprint of their presence -
some faded, some written indelibly, part of us all.
“What do morgues have to do with what I am,
with who I am, with who I will be. Because
I will always be, and even knowing this, I know
enough to understand that you will weep,
and long, and stamp your feet, pound your fists.
All is frivolous exposition and desire;.
You cannot see what has been fulfilled.
“Leave me in no Rue Morgue, as if you could!
I would not go, nor could I stay.
Have you not heard, do you not know,
there is no morgue, after, nor for death.”
My mother changed her mind. No cremation.
We did not know why, but we complied.
But she too added the proviso - "unless there is
a more frugal manner to dispose of waste.
A pine box, perhaps. Is there cardboard?”
Cardboard was an option, and we took her at her word.
With no embalming, such a burial required immediacy.
All we who could be, were present to see the flimsy box,
duct-taped closed, ignominious, as she desired, merely dropped
into a hole in the ground "That is not me!" she fairly shouted.
We knew then, we know now, it is so. Where she is, she laughs;
where she is, her husband laughs with her, and smiles at us.
Why should we be in a quandary? Why should there be doubt.?
In our time we have chosen laughter. My father's ashes were
buried with my mother. In the urn (most inexpensive),
as had been specified.
The box was placed between her legs.
No morgue, no more mourning,
what could we do but laugh?
Only wistful longings for their bigger-than-life
presence. But where they have gone is the only
home that can hold them. This we know.
Twenty-one years, eleven years. Time is marked, but meaningless.
We have erected no marker. None would serve.
Their souls are the stone.
Wonderful poem, Paula! Loved everything about it!
What a beautiful piece of writing, Paula. A pleasure to read. Thanks for sharing.
M wrote: "Excellent, SheBlogger! Vivid and unsettling."Thomas (Marimbapanda) wrote: "Wow! That's a very interesting take on the topic! I was pondering doing something similar, but I lacked the courage to do it properly."
Thanks, M. Thanks, Thomas.
Love it, Al. Very powerful imagery. Lines 3&4 really hit home the sense of loss. Great writing, well done.
I'm going to read the other poems posted later, but I thought Ryan's and the poem Thomas posted were beautiful! I understood the metaphor of Christopher Robin and childhood; fantastic and great idea!And Thomas, I had the same reaction as Al's. Stunning!
WOW!!! Amazing, Paula! That is a wonderfully excellent poem. It goes beyond anything I could possibly do!
Al. I'm not sure, but is your character planning to kill herself too? When she pulls his hand across a chest that is never to rise again, is it her's or his own? Beautifully written. Simplistic poetry strikes a chord in my heart when I read it, because so many people can read and enjoy it. (Plus I can't write the complex stuff.) With such few words you can portray such great emotion. Well done!
Thanks, Hanz! It means a lot to hear those words from you. :D
Well, Thomas, if simple is what you like, then don't read the following. You have caught me in one of my verbose phases.What's Left But the Bones: Cotton for Comfort Redux.
It was my mother who identified me.
Not by my remains,
For the little that remained of me
was comprised of the natural white anonymity of fleshless bone.
Sex, once curvaceous and vibrant and fetid
had become a dry geometric puzzle,
the curve of the pelvic girdle and coccyx
the sere mystery of skull and bone density,
agéd clues in de-gummed teeth and voided cranial sutures.
It was by my clothes,
the clothes I'd been killed in,
the made of comfortable cotton clothes
that so affronted my mother's sense of social propriety,
that became the means of my escape from the unmarked grave
of an anonymous de-animation.
There were tears.
But …
How to say this? The tears were not for me, now,
but for the simulacrum of a corpulent me that once appeared to exist in the mind's eye,
the giddy distracted mind for the gaudy embodied me I once dizzily revelled in.
Or, at least that's what I'd like to think I want to remember,
to be remembered by
by the strangers I was bound to by the soft
pillowy cotton delicate strings made by
and dedicated to the social obligation of family stones.
Stones? How to explain this weight?
In so far as my skeleton is sensate,
I feel compelled to embrace Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book* cant
and list my listlessness as follows:
cross bones, tomb stones,
head stones, hearth stones, heart stones.
Cajones, nerve, verve.
Vicissitude.
In the morgue I rest, un-rued on cold rude un-stained steel,
pillowed by the dead sure attitude found solely
in an unremarked gravestone, wet from an unexpected cloudburst,
and in the lost certitude of my lonesome anonymity.
*The Pillow Book has been called a book of lists because Shonagon included lists of all kinds. And it has some great and quotable observations, such as:In life there are two things which are dependable. The pleasures of the flesh and the pleasures of literature.
—Sei Shonagon circa 1000ad.
Let me first comment on the incredible and excellent variety of poetry and expression - given the seemingly narrow subject. We poets are indeed a peculiar breed! So, I decided to look up the word morgue and its etymology. Here are but a few:morgue (môrg) n. 1. A place in which the bodies of persons found dead are kept until identified and claimed or until arrangements for burial have been made.
Etymology and lexicology :A morgue or mortuary (in a hospital or elsewhere) is used for the storage of human corpses awaiting identification, or removal for autopsy or disposal by burial.
Morgue Etymology and lexicology. Types of cold chambers .A morgue or mortuary (in a hospital or elsewhere) is used for the storage of human corpses awaiting identification, or removal for autopsy or disposal by burial.
Mogue: place for dead bodies: a room or building usually run by a state or municipal government in which dead bodies are kept until they are autopsied or identified. 2. dismal place: a gloomy place that lacks warmth or cheer (informal - sort of like some of my parties!). 3. press collection of information: a room or file in a newspaper office containing miscellaneous files (unsolved or otherwise, I assume), i.e. "The Cold Files."
Of course these are but a few, however, all of them are approximately the same. Do you suppose any of us actually have used or will use the word as it is properly defined? Some of them merely skirt the subject. My poem certainly doesn't really fit the definition - just the thoughts it brings to mind. - I wonder my poem (or any of them) should be changed to reflect a place rather than a feeling. I don't know - just thinking. What say you?
I am not intending to denigrate any of these wonderful, and evocative poems. All excellent in their own way, and will be very difficult to choose one over the other. (I still believe that we should be allowed to vote for more than one per contest.) Also, I have another thought: Is there a way for our poems to have a greater exposure beyond our rather limited group? Perhaps on a periodic basis, we can show our first-place poems and put them in some sort of public forum, i.e., "The Best of the Best - Our least stuffy stuffage." The compilation would of course include the short story entries as well.
Just a thought - let me know whatyou think!
Everyone's poems have been amazing. I wasn't going to put up anything but this came to me while I was messing around.The Midnight Death
This slab of stone was once my own
The skin so cold I used to hold
Now laying still
No more to feel
Hair so white used to shine bright
Sightless eyes gaze that once help sway
My heart is stopped
But time has not
Where are you now?
Shall I ever find you again?
The river outside so clean and cool
I will be lost soon, in a moonlit pool
[Takes fingers out of ears.] Thank you, Al. I am so glad you enjoyed it. Although I am sure you say that to all the young handsome poets! LoL! I was a bit nervous about doing a continuation of Cotton for Comfort, but the morgue theme fit its ending too perfectly to resist. I hope it was both its own poem, but still felt like it was connected to Cotton.Paula, yes, this motley crew of poets is indeed amazing. As to broadcasting the poems to a larger audience, I've thought the same thing, but haven't come up with a clear way of making that work without a lot of work. I'm not afraid of that as such, but I've long since run out of available hours in the day to add something more to them and so I have avoided suggesting something I couldn't help make go.
Al's the Domina Regni, but if you can scrape up a few people to help, and with Al's blessing, at the very least we could perhaps make a small self-published group PDF book. I think that there have been some fantastic poems. Part of the process would require getting permissions from the contributors if they are going to be printed electronically or otherwise, or broadcast or blogged.
That's okay, Al! Excitement is good, once and a while. So happy that my little effort was able to generate that kind of response.
Paula Tohline wrote: "Let me first comment on the incredible and excellent variety of poetry and expression - given the seemingly narrow subject. We poets are indeed a peculiar breed! So, I decided to look up the word..."Interesting thoughts, Paula. I guess we spend so much time trying to paint a subtle picture rather than using a direct approach. Therefore when "morgue" is presented, we tend to look at it from every angle other than the most direct and literal one...
Hanzleberry wrote: "I'm going to read the other poems posted later, but I thought Ryan's and the poem Thomas posted were beautiful! I understood the metaphor of Christopher Robin and childhood; fantastic and great ide..."Thanks, Hanzleberry!
You know perfectly well what my name is. You're my sister! By the way Ryan, you can just call me Hanz. Lol.
Hi, Cheyenne! It's been a while. Okay, you popping up just now is amazing because I was just thinking about you today. In fact, I was catching up on an old fushigi that involved your poem with the balloons. Would you let me post it in my blog? I'll give you full credit, and provide links back to your profile here in Goodreads, or to where ever you'd like me to. My fushigi blogs are a bit unusual, and so if you'd like to see what I mean, here's the link to one: Zoë Keating Fushigi.
Natural Causeshis death preceded;
now her body tents the sheet
her red heart frozen
Guy wrote: "Hi, Cheyenne! It's been a while. Okay, you popping up just now is amazing because I was just thinking about you today. In fact, I was catching up on an old fushigi that involved your poem with the ..."That involved my poem? Well, I'm flattered :)
How exactly did/does it involve my poem? I'm curious. And yes, you're welcome to post the poem. Providing the link to my goodreads is fine.
And that's funny, I was just thinking about that poem a few days ago and trying to find a paper copy of it.
I’m just now catching up on this thread. Ryan’s “Homecoming,” with its refrain, reminds me of old ballads like “Barbara Allen.” Very nicely done!I didn’t expect the ending in Thomas’s chilling poem “Goodbye”!
Reading Paula’s “What Need Have We for Morgues,” I couldn’t help but wonder why the speaker’s mother decides against cremation. I especially like the lines “We have erected no marker. None would serve. / Their souls are the stone.”
Alex’s epitaph-like “Frozen” is graphic!
Even in the death, the speaker in Guy’s “What’s Left but the Bones” can’t resist infectious wordplay: “In the morgue I rest, un-rued on cold rude un-stained steel . . .”
“I will be lost soon, in a moonlit pool” is the line that really grabs me in Christa’s “The Midnight Death.”
Kate’s haiku “Natural Causes” tells a story minutely chiseled in words. The image in the second line is almost photographically clear!
Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don’t use a poem previously used in this group.
Your poem can be any length.
This week’s topic is: Morgue.
The rules are pretty loose. You can write a poem about anything that has to do with the topic. I do not care, but the poem you post must relate to the topic somehow.
Have fun!