I spied a valley low
Across the road from the cemetery
A Columbus monkey swinging by
The trees of the vale
Stood tall and forlorn
Observing the crematorium
Covered in light gray smoke
As morning traffic streamed on by
Giraffe reached for the tallest bough
And I thought I heard the leopards growl
And by the road was a troop of baboons
As people walked on by
And a few yards away,
Was the army garrison
A regiment trooped on by,
As a sounder was grazing idly by
And people walked on by
Yes I spied a valley low
Where life carried on slow
Across the road from the cemetery
Where footsteps were dull and hollow
A funeral procession was going on
Yes the trees of the vale
Were tall and forlorn
The sun hung high and lorn
As were the clouds of dawn
As I drove along that road
Away from that valley low
My friend once got into a crematorium.
As I promised him, on a certain gloomy date,
I brought him to the sea, with grief and sorry.
What for? Of course, on the sea to dissipate!
dead
bones rise
in ashes,
furnace spews clouds
smelling putrid smoke,
tongues consume bodies all,
aeolian whispers fan
Varanasi’s fierce appetite,
prayer flags wave like a wick of hope
while the ruddy Ganges silently flows
Before the dawn
Listening unfamiliar talk
Through the buildings opposite
Following the cluster of temples,
Feelings on my thought mixing-
Morning Prayer gong in peace: the bell.
Living wood on a dying fire ask
Did we know the truth of us?
Emitting rays of east,
Radiance on a river reflect
As I reach to the bank.
Early morning,
Ongoing cremation
And activities around
Put forth in contrast a life.
Where degrees of emotion along,
Knowledge of life enlightened
Observing transformation
Into universal elements
Flesh, that adjoins.
The car that brings that box
with requisite solemnity
purrs reverently to its gentle halt.
The engine is well mannered,
so quiet I hardly know it’s died,
yet the silence now is solid,
till men in black, with practised gravity,
pass to the rear to slide out that box
from its car-borne bier,
where it sat like a slab during transit.
Now it commands my eyes;
it shares my air.
That box! It cannot be ignored,
not now it is here and I so close
and knowing what is in it.
Only when it is carried inside
and placed on the catafalque –
restoring distance between it and me –
do I allow a resumption of my breath
as I move into the chapel
to take my place and make my farewell.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.