Thursday, February 15, 2018

After Ash Wednesday 2018

Examination at the Womb-Door

Who owns those scrawny little feet?    Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face?    Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs?    Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles?    Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts?    Death.
Who owns these questionable brains?    Death.
All this messy blood?    Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes?    Death.
This wicked little tongue?    Death.
This occasional wakefulness?    Death.

Given, stolen, or held pending trial?

Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth?    Death.
Who owns all of space?    Death.

Who is stronger than hope?    Death.
Who is stronger than the will?    Death.
Stronger than love?    Death.
Stronger than life?    Death.

But who is stronger than Death?
                          Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.

--Ted Hughes

I posted this before with Eliot's "Marina," and reading that again I'm again convinced Hughes had that poem in mind when he wrote this one.  Not thematically, but certainly as an inspiration for how to use the language to his own purpose.

Besides, it's a worthy meditation for Lent.

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