The Book Theif, Markus Zusak,AUS, March 2006
"The survivors. Theyr'e the ones I can't stand to look at, although on many occasions I still fail, I deliberatly see out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind."
The Book Theif, Markus Zusak, AUS, March 2006
It's Death Again
"It's Death again – He's always there –
Watching, waiting – e'er the stare!
Every time I look behind
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood –
A little clue to where he stood;
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But O! no use, he'll never go.
The adamant phantom; don't you know
He will but wait until it's time
For me to hear His fateful chime? –
The toll that claims my destiny,
To Hail: 'You're next, it has to be…'"
Watching, waiting – e'er the stare!
Every time I look behind
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood –
A little clue to where he stood;
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But O! no use, he'll never go.
The adamant phantom; don't you know
He will but wait until it's time
For me to hear His fateful chime? –
The toll that claims my destiny,
To Hail: 'You're next, it has to be…'"
It's Death Again, Mark R Slaughter, Norwich, 2009
Suicide
An underlying sense of counting down –
A rhythm deep: enteric thuds –
Each another year to fret and frown
About, wading in the claggy muds
Of trial – to here, the blackened life.
A glint of blade had caught a baggy eye,
Sparking thoughts to jump the fence.
Could I grasp the handle – was I shy
Of what I had to do and hence remain
Enshrined in overwhelming strife?
The metal winked at me again
To beg the possibility
Of halting once and all the pain
To relish an eternity
Of rested shoulders,
Peace of mind;
So here, my wrist
For ‘quick and kind.’
Suicide, Mark R Slaughter, Norwich, 2009
The Child Dying
Unfriendly friendly universe,
I pack your stars into my purse,
And bid you so farewell.
That I can leave you, quite go out,
Go out, go out beyond all doubt,
My father says, is the miracle.
You are so great, and I so small:
I am nothing, you are all:
Being nothing, I can take this way.
Oh I need neither rise nor fall,
For when I do not move at all
I shall be out of all your day.
It's said some memory will remain
In the other place, grass in the rain,
Light on the land, sun on the sea,
A flitting grace, a phantom face,
But the world is out. There is not place
Where it and its ghost can ever be.
Father, father, I dread this air
Blown from the far side of despair
The cold cold corner. What house, what hold,
What hand is there? I look and see
Nothing-filled eternity,
And the great round world grows weak and old.
Hold my hand, oh hold it fast-
I am changing! - until at last
My hand in yours no more will change,
Though yours change on. You here, I there,
So hand in hand, twin-leafed despair -
I did not know death was so strange.
The Child Dying,Edwin Muir, Orkney, Scotland, 1950
An underlying sense of counting down –
A rhythm deep: enteric thuds –
Each another year to fret and frown
About, wading in the claggy muds
Of trial – to here, the blackened life.
A glint of blade had caught a baggy eye,
Sparking thoughts to jump the fence.
Could I grasp the handle – was I shy
Of what I had to do and hence remain
Enshrined in overwhelming strife?
The metal winked at me again
To beg the possibility
Of halting once and all the pain
To relish an eternity
Of rested shoulders,
Peace of mind;
So here, my wrist
For ‘quick and kind.’
Suicide, Mark R Slaughter, Norwich, 2009
The Child Dying
Unfriendly friendly universe,
I pack your stars into my purse,
And bid you so farewell.
That I can leave you, quite go out,
Go out, go out beyond all doubt,
My father says, is the miracle.
You are so great, and I so small:
I am nothing, you are all:
Being nothing, I can take this way.
Oh I need neither rise nor fall,
For when I do not move at all
I shall be out of all your day.
It's said some memory will remain
In the other place, grass in the rain,
Light on the land, sun on the sea,
A flitting grace, a phantom face,
But the world is out. There is not place
Where it and its ghost can ever be.
Father, father, I dread this air
Blown from the far side of despair
The cold cold corner. What house, what hold,
What hand is there? I look and see
Nothing-filled eternity,
And the great round world grows weak and old.
Hold my hand, oh hold it fast-
I am changing! - until at last
My hand in yours no more will change,
Though yours change on. You here, I there,
So hand in hand, twin-leafed despair -
I did not know death was so strange.
The Child Dying,Edwin Muir, Orkney, Scotland, 1950
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