There’s Only One Natural Death, And Even That’s Bedcide

For the post-mortem amusement of Richard Brautigan

Death by over-seasoning: Herbicide
Death by annoyance: Pesticide
Death by suffocation: Carbon monoxide
Death by burning: Firecide
Death by falling: Cliffcide
Death by hiking: Trailcide
Death by camping: Campcide
Death by drowning: Rivercide

                            Lakecide
                           Oceancide

Death from puking: Curbcide
Death from boredom: Hearthcide
Death at the hands of the medical profession: Dockcide
Death from an overnight stay: Inncide
Death by suprise: Backcide
Death by blow to the head: Upcide
Death from delirious voting: Rightcide
Death from hounding: Leftcide
Death through war: Theircide & Ourcide
Death by penalty: Offcide
Death following a decision: Decide

– Edward Dorn

Postscript:
I came across this by happy chance over at the Poetry Foundation, a site I would highly recommend.
You can read more about Edward Dorn here and here.

The Book

He ate and drank the precious Words
His Spirit grew robust
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was Dust

He danced along the dingy Days
And this Bequest of Wings
Was but a Book — What Liberty
A loosened spirit brings,

– Emily Dickinson

Submitted by:
Arun Rachamadugu, who says “Emily Dickinson weaves magic with her words. She can captivate you with her imagery and profundity and not many people can match her work with the written word. This short poem always motivates me to get back to my reading list and start reading!”

Postscript:
What is there to say about Dickinson? This gem of a poem about the freedom that reading brings reminds me of this other poem by her.
You can read more about her life here and the complete poems here.

In Mind

There’s in my mind a woman
of innocence, unadorned but

fair-featured and smelling of
apples or grass. She wears

a utopian smock or shift, her hair
is light brown and smooth, and she

is kind and very clean without
ostentation–

but she has
no imagination

And there’s a
turbulent moon-ridden girl

or old woman, or both,
dressed in opals and rags, feathers

and torn taffeta,
who knows strange songs

but she is not kind.

– Denise Levertov

Postscript:
So many ways to look at this poem that come to mind; where to start?
First off, the immediately apparent – that if you’re a woman and innocent, kind, considerate that you lack imagination; that interesting people that know strange songs are neither kind nor do they quite fit in.
The gender overlay gives us the ‘good’ girl and the ‘bad’ girl, and conforming to societal expectations and not making people uncomfortable.
The other way to see it is that it’s a false choice – you don’t have to be one or the other, and can be both at different times or at the same time.
There are vague hints of the maiden, the mother and the crone – more allusions than anything, and maybe just something I’m reading into the poem that’s not really there. The mother, of course, being the role that society accepts and compliant of others’ wishes, and the maiden and the crone being turbulent, disturbing, misfits that have power and challenge the order of things.
Something about this poem put me in mind of this poem by E.E. Cummings. Probably because Life is portrayed as boring and a little sad, Death as young and casually cruel but dashing and interesting.
We’ve run another poem by Levertov here. There’s some biographical information on that page as well. You can read a bit more about her life here and an interview with her here.