Book of the Dead 4

Ghosts are only people
Confused by growing transparent.
I had a great-grandmother who didn’t know 
She was a ghost for nearly a decade.
Her hair grew gray,
Then wirey-white,
Then transparent limp-gray again.
Her skin thinned
Until that which marked what was part of her
And what was the rest of the cosmos,
Became indistinct
And it barely mattered.

She lived in a time that had passed.
She spoke to other ghosts
And asked about the living.
She had lost track of her time.
When she finally died,
Mostly it was a relief.

Trauma has come to the Marsh home this fall. I could count them for you, but I won’t. It was enough for me to forget about writing 30 poems in 30 days until reminded on the 18th of the month.

So, here is my effort. Not a happy one, but it’s where the creative juices are right now. This will be 30 poems about death by the end of November. No images on these posts to attract your eyes.

Offering #1

Book of the Dead 1

In the last light of early evening
The newly-dead gather on the other side of the river.
They shout things back to us on the living bank,
Things that matter to the dead.
“Take care of your lungs.”
“Grief is a sharp stick.”
But the living do not hear them,
Jumbled when whisper-shouted together.
The living have gathered inside anyway,
Like every day,
Preparing food and turning on lights.
These are things the dead have forgotten.

These images are relief prints of Sir Henry and Lady Margery Paris. They are representations of the brasses that overlay their graves.

Let me tell you some history. Long ago and far away, I married a woman whose family had lived in London for several years. Her mother was a very active “brass rubber.” These grave plates were often overlaid with special paper and traced with special crayons to create unique art pieces in themselves. When Pat and I married, her mother gifted a pair of rubbings of Sir Henry Paris and his wife Lady Margery Paris to my parents.

Time moves on and Pat and I divorce but the rubbings continued to find a place on the walls of my parents’ house while they begin to sell their original art at craft fairs and shows. One of the pieces my father made was a carving (approximately 30″ by 12″) in a single butternut plank. He puts an “I don’t want to sell these” price on the pieces.

More years pass, as do my parents and Pat’s parents. Somehow these carvings by my father find their way to me and they have hung over my bed for a long time. One day, it occurs to me that I should carve and print them too.

In the process of researching them, I discover that Dad’s carvings are of Sir Henry Paris but the paired woman is not his wife, Lady Margery. I do not know if my parents received a mis-matched pair of rubbings or if Dad substituted a different image himself.

My version is of Sir Henry and Lady Margery. This series of seven prints each is in gold, but I may create another series one day in silver. Rest easy Henry, Margery, Harold, Joyce, Glen and Edith.