Wednesday, April 5, 2017

April 5: Fan of Cemeteries, Flu Epidemics, Richard Wilbur, "In A Churchyard"

I have always been a fan of cemeteries.  I can spend hours wandering around graves, reading headstones, finding whole sections filled with Civil War veterans and victims of flu epidemics.  I like the act of remembering, bringing the long dead back to life, if only for a few minutes.

Tomorrow, after work, a couple of my best friends and I are walking to the cemetery where my sister is interred.  It will be a celebration of sorts, honoring our friendships and my sister's life.  We are going to bring hot chocolate.  Maybe take some pictures.

Saint Marty is really looking forward to it.

In A Churchyard

by:  Richard Wilbur

That flower unseen, that gem of purest ray,
Bright thoughts uncut by men:
Strange that you need but speak them, Thomas Gray,
And the mind skips and dives beyond its ken,

Finding at once the wild supposed bloom,
Or in the imagined cave
Some pulse of crystal staving off the gloom
As covertly as phosphorus in a grave.

Void notions proper to a buried head!
Beneath these tombstones here
Unseenness fills the sockets of the dead,
Whatever to their souls may now appear;

And who but those unfathomably deaf
Who quiet all this ground
Could catch, within the ear's diminished clef,
A music innocent of time and sound?

What do the living hear, then, when the bell
Hangs plumb within the tower
Of the still church, and still their thoughts compel
Pure tollings that intend no mortal hour?

As when a ferry for the shore of death
Glides looming toward the dock,
Her engines cut, her spirits bating breath
As the ranked pilings narrow toward the shock,

So memory and expectation set
Some pulseless clangor free
Of circumstance, and charm us to forget
This twilight crumbling in the churchyard tree,

Those swifts or swallows which do not pertain,
Scuffed voices in the drive,
That light flicked on behind the vestry pane,
Till, unperplexed from all that is alive,

It shadows all our thought, balked imminence
Of uncommitted sound,
And still would tower at the sill of sense
Were not, as now, its honeyed abeyance crowned

With a mauled boom of summons far more strange
Than any stroke unheard,
Which breaks again with unimagined range
Through all reverberations of the word,

Pooling the mystery of things that are,
The buzz of prayer said,
The scent of grass, the earliest-blooming star,
These unseen gravestones, and the darker dead.

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