Lay these words into the dead man's grave next to the almonds and black cherries--- tiny skulls and flowering blood-drops, eyes, and Thou, O bitterness that pillows his head. Lay these words on the dead man's eyelids like eyebrights, like medieval trumpet flowers that will flourish, this time, in the shade. Let the beheaded tulips glisten with rain. Lay these words on his drowned eyelids like coins or stars, ancillary eyes. Canopy the swollen sky with sunspots while thunder addresses the ground. Syllable by syllable, clawed and handled, the words have united in grief. It is the ghostly hour of lamentation, the void's turn, mournful and absolute. Lay these words on the dead man's lips like burning tongs, a tongue of flame. A scouring eagle wheels and shrieks. Let God pray to us for this man.
Edward Hirsch - 1950-
Tonight when I knelt down next to our cat, Zooey, And put my fingers into her clean cat's mouth, And rubbed her swollen belly that will never know kittens, And watched her wriggle onto her side, pawing the air, And listened to her solemn little squeals of delight, I was thinking about the poet, Christopher Smart, Who wanted to kneel down and pray without ceasing In every one of the splintered London streets, And was locked away in the madhouse at St. Luke's With his sad religious mania, and his wild gratitude, And his grave prayers for the other lunatics, And his great love for his speckled cat, Jeoffry. All day today—August 13, 1983—I remembered how Christopher Smart blessed this same day in August, 1759, For its calm bravery and ordinary good conscience. This was the day that he blessed the Postmaster General "And all conveyancers of letters" for their warm humanity, And the gardeners for their private benevolence And intricate knowledge of the language of flowers, And the milkmen for their universal human kindness. This morning I understood that he loved to hear— As I have heard—the soft clink of milk bottles On the rickety stairs in the early morning, And how terrible it must have seemed When even this small pleasure was denied him. But it wasn't until tonight when I knelt down And slipped my hand into Zooey's waggling mouth That I remembered how he'd called Jeoffry "the servant Of the Living God duly and daily serving Him," And for the first time understood what it meant. Because it wasn't until I saw my own cat Whine and roll over on her fluffy back That I realized how gratefully he had watched Jeoffry fetch and carry his wooden cork Across the grass in the wet garden, patiently Jumping over a high stick, calmly sharpening His claws on the woodpile, rubbing his nose Against the nose of another cat, stretching, or Slowly stalking his traditional enemy, the mouse, A rodent, "a creature of great personal valour," And then dallying so much that his enemy escaped. And only then did I understand It is Jeoffry—and every creature like him— Who can teach us how to praise—purring In their own language, Wreathing themselves in the living fire.