The Dead Woman (Identity)

 (After Marvin Bell. Or not.)

Live as if you were already dead.

                        —  Zen admonition

About The Dead Woman (Identity)

The dead woman is not the dead man.

She works in couplets, not single lines.

The dead woman is classically female:

even numbers, softness, curves, the dark.

The dead woman has her own agenda:

when I write curves, she prints ‘caves’. It’s not wrong.

The dead woman grows anxious. 

She prints this as ‘noxious.’ That’s not wrong either.

The dead woman prints ‘either’ as ‘wither.’

Then she wonders whither she may now wander.

More About the Dead Woman (Identity)

The dead woman rises up out of her chair.

She tips the white petals out of her dress.

The dead woman will dress as she pleases now,

no matter how she was decorated, by others, for the funeral.

The dead woman spits a nasty taste out of her mouth.

She doesn’t watch, like a tidy person, to see where it landed.

Now, the dead woman runs away from her funeral.

She is not still. She is not biddable.

I couldn't resist doing another one! But I'll probably stop here.

The Dead Woman (Watching)

(After Marvin Bell. Or not.)

Live as if you were already dead.

                        —  Zen admonition

About the Dead Woman Watching

The dead woman is watching.

She wants to hang on.

The dead woman takes long sniffs.

She smells the heat.

The dead woman sits without turning.

She decides that the rain is nothing.

The dead woman wants to be a camera. 

She dreams of a hoard of images to snap and keep.

More About The Dead Woman Watching

The dead woman, wants to embrace you;

she is watching as you sleep.

The dead woman smells flowers with gusto;

the dead woman tastes them.

The dead woman has no hat for the sun.

She lets the heat burst on her face.

The dead woman sits in front of the television.

She sits without turning it on: she has x-ray vision.

The dead woman is laughing.

Being dead is nothing like she expected.

For Friday Writings #251 at Poets and Storytellers United, we were asked to be inspired by Halloween or Dia de Muertos. I'm not well acquainted with the latter and have already written enough poems about the former, so my mind wandered to Marvin Bell's 'dead man' poems. Years ago I made an attempt to write in this form; looking back now, I see I made a real botch of it. So I took what I wrote then and reshaped it to be more like Bell's invention, e.g. the first part, 'About,' should be about the inner experience; the second, 'More About,' should concern the outer. Each line should work as a complete sentence, i.e. no enjambment. The overall title and section titles, and the Zen epigraph, also follow Bell's practice. I was thinking that now I've got the idea better, I might try some more. Then I had a look at a whole volume of Bell's Dead Man poems ('Incarnate') and realised I really haven't created much of a likeness, in idea or structure – which is perhaps OK, as I want to write my own poems, not replicas of other people's – but more likely not OK, as I couldn't begin to match his intricate turns of thought. (Not to mention that he doesn't use couplets.) Really I can only say these are 'based on' or 'inspired by' Bell's unique, innovative idea.

Poetry Prompt

 

She gives us examples:

three ‘screen’ poems.

Each screen is made 

of green leaves, emblem 

of nature, of life.

In each, behind 

the vibrant screen,

slowly revealed, is the death 

of one much loved – presented

through light-filled screens,

which do not conceal deep pain.

A Quadrille, written for Q258: I Screen, You Screen, We All Screen ... at dVerse Poets Pub.

Life After Death

 

Every so often I find myself

drifting back to the me

who met you in that strangest

of all places, the prison,

and memory recreates

those bleak details, walls

and high windows and

everything very basic

and the you whom I met

with all that light in your eyes

as we sparred or enthused

over poetry, and I melted away

to become all inner self

made visible, and in your eyes

of ocean-blue, you too 

shone clearly through.

Occasionally, dreams.

Many when you first died,

some forgetfully happy, some horrible.

Sometimes, now, almost

matter-of-fact. After all,

I hung on. Though you left me,

you have never left me …

the sweet small things remain

stronger after all than the torments.

Of course that comforts.

I want to believe, though, 

that you live beyond

memory and dream,

your own reality going on

with or without me. I want

to know you continue.

Written for Friday Writings #250: Memories and Dreams, at Poets and Storytellers United.

Many of my readers will know the back story to this poem. I'm very much hoping it works even without that background knowledge.

Yesterday Afternoon

I sat down in my armchair, ‘just for a minute,’

then I was dreaming. There was my Poppi! I didn’t 

know it was a dream. In the dream I didn’t know 

she’d been dead. ‘Poppi, you’re back!’ I said, 

with a joyful shout, and ran after her down the passage 

as she scampered in a way she hadn’t these last few years, 

but once did. I wanted to see her sweet face. 

She never turned it to me, but I knew it was her. 

Two other cats – Freya in 2010, Selene 2015 – 

disappeared right after moving in here, to go and explore

for two whole days. Each time, I thought I’d never 

see them again – until they turned up, curiosity satisfied, 

no more wanders. In my dream, I thought it was just

like that. ‘Oh, Poppi,’ I said. ‘Here you are!’

I was laughing, excited. ‘Come here,’ I called,  

‘and give me a cuddle.’ But she ran happily, full 

of life and strength, and I ran too without stumbling –

which I can’t any more. Maybe that fact interrupted,

told me I was dreaming. With a sudden wrench

I woke up – alone in my chair, in a silent house.

The Spring day was already turning dark.

‘I dreamed that Poppi came back,’ I told a friend.

‘Perhaps she did,’ she said. Perhaps … it was

vivid enough. Others, other loved ones who 

have gone on, have visited in dreams. Was this 

a hello from Poppi-turned-angel? But in the dream

I was running too. Was it a different angel-message

to tell me, ‘Fear not. You will soon be rejoined.’ ? 

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #249: Message from an Angel.

The Voices

The noise in her head

is made of voices –

her family’s voices

lifelong and blaming,

the voice of the former husband 

whispering insults 

just before he hit,

the voices of other women

scornful, demanding to know 

why she didn’t just go …

The voices of landlords

asking more and more money

for hovels, refusing repairs;

the voices of addicts

her neighbours

yelling and screeching

all hours; and the voices

of not-friends-after-all

excusing themselves

from going out for a coffee.

Her voice, as she tries

to make sense of all this

talking to me, 

is surprisingly clear.

‘Why’ she asks,

‘can we not find compassion?’

She blames COVID isolation

from which we haven’t recovered,

and the young eyes always on phones, 

not looking outward to other people.

I see also an older pattern

still not gone from the world:

a woman alone, no man

beside her to demand 

the automatic respect

she deserves in her own right.

I can do nothing practical, only listen, 

tell her she’s making sense (she is) 

and hope my one small voice 

provides some momentary relief.

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #248, where we are invited to write about a type of noise, literal or metaphorical. (It seems I might need to explain, for some readers, that the 'she' here is not me. I am the listener, observer and narrator.)