My mother was just diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins lymphoma and has not been given much time left to live. Please, leave poetry about deaths and losing family members or even getting over it or anything that can make me feel better. I can't imagine poetry failing me now.
In return:
Why A Man Cannot Have Wings - Alfian bin Sa'at
Because he will crash
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-Robert Bly
God does what she wants. She has very large
Tractors. She lives at night in the sewing room
Doing stitchery. Then chunks of land at mid-
Sea disappear. The husband knows that his wife
Is still breathing. God has arranged the open
Grave. That grave is not what we want,
But to God it’s a tiny hole, and he has
The needle, draws thread through it, and soon
A nice pattern appears. The husband cries,
“Don’t let her die!” But God says, “I
Need a yellow dot here, near the mailbox.”
The husband is angry. But the turbulent ocean
Is like a chicken scratching for seeds. It doesn’t
Mean anything, and the chicken’s claws will tear
A Rembrandt drawing if you put it down.
(In memory of Jane Kenyon)
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by Denise Levertov
Ah, grief, I should not treat you
like a homeless dog
who comes to the back door
for a crust, for a meatless bone.
I should trust you.
I should coax you
into the house and give you
your own corner,
a worn mat to lie on,
your own water dish.
You think I don't know you've been living
under my porch.
You long for your real place to be readied
before winter comes. You need
your name,
your collar and tag. You need
the right to warn off intruders,
to consider my house your own
and me your person
and yourself
my own dog.
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