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This Poem was Submitted By: G. Donald Cribbs On Date: 2004-05-11 22:04:51 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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The Death of a Poet

To Eunice, who slipped from us so suddenly, and to whom this poem is written. By day’s end we are spent, our lumbering through this living slumber to the last look light leaves us at the lakeshore, swan-like fierceness flickering under feathers white and tomb-like. How horribly the waters part beneath us, surround on all sides, grapple us with long ripples, bony strokes pressing us to the lowest point of the lake floor. There the dust settles from waters stirred and cycling around us, laid with whispered prayers and dreams too terrible to remember by morning. How stunned and numbly we wake, shake off the watery shroud, breathe wakefulness through lungs drowned by night’s dreams. We stumble down to lividity, hers, a dream unshaken by morning’s breath, desperate death where the heart stops and air escapes altogether. Now, words stick fast to the inner walls, my chest still grasping for air, stubbornly held by the dream’s delicious and delicate darkness, drifting in the swan’s scything path and death, which is a letting go.

Additional Notes:
This poem makes reference to a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke, the german poet who wrote "Letters to a Young Poet," among others. His poem, Der Schwan, translated from the German by Robert Bly: The Swan This clumsy living that moves lumbering as if in ropes through what is not done reminds us of the awkward way the swan walks. And to die, which is a letting go of the ground we stand on and cling to every day, is like the swan when he nervously lets himself down into the water, which receives him gaily and which flows joyfully under and after him, wave after wave, while the swan, unmoving and marvelously calm, is pleased to be carried, each minute more fully grown, more like a king, composed, farther and farther on. So, the imagery of the swan "letting go" and being carried by the water is in the same way how we, at death, let go of our mortal bodies, and slip into the waters of the afterlife. On a personal note, Eunice was my mother in law, who died in her sleep hours before I tried to bring her back with CPR.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Jennifer j Hill On Date: 2004-06-06 23:22:52
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.94444
Hi Don, This is a powerfull tribute. And thank you, not only for sharing your poem, but also for sharing the Rilke poem, which is quite beautiful. One can see how The Swan influenced your writing and how your loss has inspired much thought in regard to the passing on of our loved ones. There is a very dreamlike sureal feel to this poem. My favorite part is: "By day’s end we are spent, our lumbering through this living slumber to the last look light leaves us at the lakeshore, swan-like fierceness flickering under feathers white and tomb-like." Your "L"s shine. Please accept my condolences on the loss of your m-i-l. Memories are the healing balm God gives us. Blessings, Jennifer

This Poem was Critiqued By: Regis L Chapman On Date: 2004-06-03 18:07:59
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.70000
An emotional wrenching work is presented here with some courage apparent. It's a high compliment to you the author that you can make such a nice work from something you were so close to. All the deaths in my family have been kept from me really addressing them in any real way, much less attempting to save the person there. It's an utter amazement to me that you can even tap into that and produce such a quality work from it. While clearly inspired by the previous work, it's got it's own very tactile life to make. I like also the reference to sleep- I have heard it referred to as "the little death". This fits nicely in this work. I wonder if the desperation aspect of this poem was not really on the part of the dying, but rather on the part of the living trying to save her life. Great work. Thanks, REEG!

This Poem was Critiqued By: Edwin John Krizek On Date: 2004-05-25 11:40:54
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.66667
Dear G., This is a powerful poem. Death is so constant yet unfathomable in all our lives. The waters do part "Horribly beneath us" sometimes. Yet I favor the end of the poem which tells about being "held by the dream’s delicious and delicate darkness, drifting in the swan’s scything path and death, which is a letting go.". I like to think of death this way. It is a dream delicious and delicate. It is a letting go. Ed Krizek

This Poem was Critiqued By: Karen Ragan On Date: 2004-05-24 01:49:11
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hi Donald, First, let me say I'm sorry for your and especially your wife's deep loss. It is never easy to let go of those we love, no matter how prepared we think we are. I read this one several times before I attempted to write a crit. Probably, because the death of my father-in-law is still so painful. His death was truly like "a dream too terrible to remember" This piece is well crafted and ebbs and flows like a river, which is the term I often associate with death--river of death--crossing the river, etc. You have used a lake instead of a river here, which works well with the images in this piece. Sometimes I miss the mechanics in poetry, because I write mostly from my feelings and cannot tell you why I write as I do--it just comes and I write it down. What I do know of the mechanics of poetry I have basicly learned here at the Link from other writers, but I have never formally studied poetry. I had to be told that I used alliteration and assonance well (I didn't even know what the words meant, so I looked them up in the dictionary) and wrote in free form, because all I knew was what felt right for me. So forgive me if I don't mention mechanics much--I deal in feelings and emotions. In all your pieces I've read, I have noticed you are very skilful in the use of alliteration. In this piece, wonderful use of the "s" sound is what I heard most pronounced--giving the whole piece a sacred, hushed feeling. By day’s end we are spent, our lumbering through this living slumber to the last look light leaves us at the lakeshore, swan-like fierceness flickering under feathers white and tomb-like. Looking back at my life, it seems like 'but a day' since I was a child...'but a day' since I got married...'but a day' since my children were born. Life carries us along and much of the past seems like a blur--it all seems so dreamlike as we look back. Time never passes us, for we are carried unwillingly on its back. It will not wait on us nor stop for us. Our attempts at living are filled with clumsy movements, stumbling, and disorder-- "lumbering through this living slumber" Time is a steady constant, but we are not; yet, we are under its control completely. 'Last look, light, leaves' make me think of 'rapidly moving on'--bringing us to the shore of eternity--where finally, time will no longer control us. We will glide without fear into its waters. I read the line, "swan-like fierceness flickering" over and over. I love the way it sounds and feels on the tongue, but I envision a swan as gentle and graceful. 'Fierceness' seems like a harsh word, but perhaps you meant 'intense' instead of 'agressive in nature' when you used the word. Though I had a hard time grasping your full meaning here, it is a hauntingly, beautiful phrase. Words like flickering, feathers white, and tomb-like all work well together here to portray a picture of death. Life as we know it is a mixture of black and white and shades inbetween, but I believe at the moment of death it becomes either black or white. I believe we are purified or cursed by the deeds we have done on earth at the moment of death. The imagery you selected to represent your mother-in-law--a graceful, white swan--shows the respect and honor you must have held for her. How horribly the waters part beneath us, surround on all sides, grapple us with long ripples, bony strokes pressing us to the lowest point of the lake floor. There the dust settles from waters The image in these stanzas is no peaceful glide on the lake, but rough waters--a whirlpool--pulling the swan down and under, drowning it. The whirlpool--violently sucking the swan beneath the waters--not only under the water, but to the bottom. The use of words like horribly, grapple, pressing, and especially bony strokes give the reader a picture of a creature being completely and suddenly overwhelmed--struggling for last breath. The phrase, 'bony strokes' seems to give the waters a personality and dark purpose as I picture the watery hand of death pulling the swan down, down. stirred and cycling around us, laid with whispered prayers and dreams too terrible to remember by morning. How stunned and numbly we wake, shake off the watery shroud, Death never announces its intentions nor softens its blow, but is cycling around us silently until we stumble into its waiting whirlpool. When waters of tragedy sift and stir the dust of our life, our fears are temporarily laid to rest with whispered prayers. We shut our eyes tightly, ignoring the nightmare, longing for a fresh morning to help us forget the terrible dreams--our living nightmares. breathe wakefulness through lungs drowned by night’s dreams. We stumble down to lividity, hers, a dream unshaken by morning’s breath, desperate death where the heart stops and air escapes altogether. We never know when night will overwhelm us for the last time and we will not wake up from our last breath--stumbling into death's black void, slipping into our nightmare. We are all just one breath and one heartbeat away from desperate death. Skilful mages of death are illusively woven throughout, but the concrete evidence of this elusive enemy is completed--a dream unshaken by morning's breath, desperate death where the heart stops......life is no more as we knew it, as desperate death visits our darkest dreams. The rest of us stand on the shore, fearing the depths of the waters, watching helplessly, as the personality of the one we loved escapes like a vapor into clouds we cannot rise to see. Now, words stick fast to the inner walls, my chest still grasping for air, stubbornly held by the dream’s delicious and delicate darkness, drifting in the swan’s scything path and death, which is a letting go. In the final wake of death, words seem puny and unimportant--nothing has really prepared us for the shock of its finality. It is finished, and there is nothing left to be said. The body we once embraced is now a tomb of nothingness. I was especially gripped by the lines, "stubbornly held by the dream's delicious and delicate darkness"--wonderful assonance and alliteration with the 's' and 'd' sounds interwoven so skilfully. Letting go is never easy, though we must face it from the cradle to the grave. A toddler 'lets go' to stumble into the arms of a parent and a parent 'lets go' as that child becomes an adult. This final 'letting go' at the moment of death is by far the most painful of all. You have layered the sad scything pain of the swan's death with the waking fears of the living, who are numbly realizing that they too must pass through the same waters and face the deadly whirlpool. It is the unknown that frightens us most, and we hope the waters are calm and ever peaceful on the other side of the whirlpool.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2004-05-18 12:13:25
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.72727
To Eunice, who slipped from us so suddenly, and to whom this poem is written. [After reading the writer's notes, the dedication is especially poignant.] By day’s end we are spent, our lumbering through this living slumber[nice internal near-rhyme with lumbering/slumber] to the last look [marvelous phrase] light leaves us at the lakeshore,[great alliteration here and throughout this tender piece] swan-like fierceness flickering under feathers white and tomb-like. This nod to the Rilke poem is astounding. It captures the theme of his poem and adds its own deep resonant chord. How horribly the waters part beneath us, surround on all sides, grapple us with long ripples, bony strokes pressing us to the lowest point of the lake floor. [Rhythmic and lovely in construction and intent.] There the dust settles from waters stirred and cycling around us,[the “dust” from waters is remarkable.] laid with whispered prayers and dreams too terrible to remember by morning.[ah - life itself perhaps] How stunned and numbly we wake, shake off the watery shroud, breathe wakefulness through lungs drowned by night’s dreams.[ I am not sure “night” is needed for the meter or the meaning] We stumble down to lividity,[to be livid? Or was the intended word lucidity?”] hers, a dream unshaken by morning’s breath, What a wonderful allusion to both the power and impotence of consciousness. desperate death where the heart stops and air escapes altogether [wonderful and evocative]. Now, words stick fast to the inner walls, my chest still grasping for air, stubbornly held by the dream’s delicious and delicate darkness, [ah, gorgeous writing here] drifting in the swan’s scything path and death, which is a letting go. with that final nod to Rilke your poem is ready to add to his in the annals of superb writing. I am sorry for the loss of your mother-in-law. What a gorgeous tribute to her life, indeed to all life.. Best, Rachel

This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2004-05-15 15:20:14
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.75000
Dear Donald: This poem has such depth and range, and intensity of feeling and scope of expression that I fear I may falter in trying to give you a sense of my response to it. I can only give a sense, as somehow it does reach beyond the scope of words for me. Though the poem 'began' as words, it became something else, interior to my own experience. This is one I will print and save in my notebook - a permanent collection of favorites. Eunice will be remembered by many more than had the privilege of meeting her because of your moving tribute. You give us Eunice, and also Bly's translation of Rilke's "Der Schwan" and the parallel between the two poems enlightens and enlarges at least this reader's comprehension of life, how we live it, and how we leave it. The imagery in your first strophe is immensely evocative. The words "lumbering through this/living slumber" capture us with a slant-rhyme, and sense of the cumbersomeness of life in the body. Your liquid l's flow with great beauty in this first stanza - it is as if the poem holds the heaviness of the burden of earthly life within its scope. But "light leaves us at the lakeshore: and "swan-like fierceness flickering" are two of the finest phrases I have read anywhere - they simply take my breath away. How horribly the waters part beneath us, surround on all sides, "grapple" us with long "ripples", --sublime alliteration here "bony strokes" pressing us to --assonance here the lowest point of the lake floor." --and here--"horribly/floor" You capture all of the intonations of 'o' as "OH/OW/OOH/AH" for example. It is as if the cries of physical and spiritual anguish are translated into this submersion into the waters which force us to the "lowest point" in this life. How unlike surrender is L1-5 in S2! We face the reality of what the death of the body IS. But the dust-laden waters, "stirred and cycling around us" are "laid with prayers/and dreams too terrible to remember by morning" recall, at least for this reader, our origins from the elements of dust and water, our "whispered prayers" of supplication and frightening dreams, in which our vulnerability is greater than in full daylight alertness. How fragile we are then, and yet, "how stunned and numbly we wake" to "shake off the watery shroud." One is reminded of the question asked by St. Paul, "O grave, where is thy victory? Death, where is thy sting? But then, the surrendering comes as "we stumble down to lividity, hers" to "desperate death" with stoppage of the heart, and the escape of air, the important third element for the sustenance of life "altogether." Now, words stick fast to the inner walls, my chest still grasping for air, stubbornly held by the dream’s delicious and delicate darkness, drifting in the swan’s scything path and death, which is a letting go. At last, surrender and release. A question arises for this reader about the nature of "the dream's/delicious and delicate darkness" -- is it only thus, only a "drifting" when one no longer struggles? Is it not only one who dies who ceases to struggle, or the one who lives, witnessing the death? Or both? Nothing of sentimentality here, but an exquisite sculpting and recognition that these "waters cycling around us" and "the swan's scything path" are part of our fabric, part of the deeper beauty and grace of life. As a side comment, perhaps, because of the enormous richness of your poem, and the luminous dimensions of Rilke's, additional comments as to the meaning of the poem aren't really needed. You make it easier to accept (for this reader) by your acceptance. I think that your mother in law blessed many more than she can possibly know, as you have blessed us here with your generous offering. I feel as though I have only given a surface response, as this poem is likely one which will yet bear more fruit more me. It is an immense honor to comment. I am sorry for your loss. With this poem, like the swan, I think you help us as reader's "to be carried, each minute more fully grown, more like a king, composed, farther and farther on." Feeling incredibly blessed, Joanne

This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2004-05-12 05:03:17
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.85714
GDC- As if we don't have enough Swan-age going on this month. Here's a bird who's reaped high regard in the world of art. Your eulogy, or metaphorical treatment of life after death, or how I felt when I dropped my Dilly Bar into the lake off the end of the dock (they float), takes stock of the German High Command and with deft manipulation - Class, sit and watch the master at work at his bench: By day’s end we are spent, our lumbering through this living slumber to the last look light leaves us at the lakeshore, swan-like fierceness flickering under feathers white and tomb-like the inner-line rhyme "end/spent" the alliteration of "l's" in "lumbering...living...light...leaves..." ditto fierceness flickering under feathers... the "long 'i'" of light/like/white/-like then the concept that life is a slumber: will death finally awaken us? the fierceness of the swan standing at the tomb in white feathers (I can see him/you, there, in the swan outfit...is that a cigar?) My favorite image: "We stumble down to lividity" which is a way of saying we are stupidly living, and only at death's call are we able to see our Holy Role, and roll the holey die...into the delicious darkness. What a man! CPR on a mother-in-law. Your meds needs adjusting, Cribbs... Just kidding. This one is all over my bunny suit. I couldn't help but spill a bit as I slurped it down. Better get back to life. This death stuff is really scary. I admonish you: keep writing this wonderful stuff. Where's my beer... right around the corner

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