Ossuary
After so many years
the bones are disinterred
and consigned to a charnel
house.
While the flesh has
returned to earth
and friends are dead
and relatives long
departed;
except for distant ones
who will not remember.
In our prayers
we talk of eternity,
reverence
amends.
But we are temporal,
and humility
becomes us best.
becomes us best.
As in everything, an end.
The bankrupt graveyard.
Precious papers
burned in the fire.
Old tapes
machines no longer play.
And most of all, fame.
I lead a small life
with no illusions of
consequence.
So it’s odd
how bone persists.
Ossuaries, older than
millennia.
Ancient bones, rattling in
their boxes,
yellowing, hard
anonymous.
I will grind them into
dust
and work them into the
soil.
Fertile earth,
like the flesh they once
wore.
Apparently in
I heard this on one of my regular podcasts, Planet Money
(NPR). Then, on the next one I listened to (The Moth) there was a
delightful story about an encounter in a graveyard. As I’ve said before, I try
not to write about death (because I am preoccupied by morbid thoughts, and I
fear every poem would contain the words “dead” or “die”!) But I suppose these
two pieces worked on my subconscious, and when this poem emerged like automatic
writing, I went with it. And it’s not as bleak as one at first might think. Because
there is, for one, the notion of continuity and unity in returning to the
earth. And then there is the laudable notion of humility: a useful counter-weight to the solipsism and
self-importance of our individualistic culture.
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