Ex-medical student Francis Thompson
off to Lords he went along
Writing of cricket in verse
producing a poem accurate but terse
CADAVER
(a philosophical dissection)
Dissection hall-bedding the dead,
The air thick with formalin,
Moving blades, dissecting-
The stillness in front.
Frostiness of death, biting-
The warmness of breathes!
Cadavers at peace,
Motionless and still,
Dead and fighting to decay,
Naked bodies-
With veiled existence!
I wonder,
If the dead had left some stories to tell,
Tales that neither made the pages of story books,
Nor been recited at bed sides.
If the dead had some songs to sing,
Melodies that neither echoed in the stars,
Nor rolled-down with the rains.
The untold stories and the unsung songs,
Can never be dissected out,
No matter how sharp the blades are!
He had started responding
To death tapping at his door
Fog crowded on his glasses
He was a medical student
Carcinogens had loved his pancreas
Would you mind coming with me
The growing fog said
Could the young stallion
Hear the mortal footsteps
While making love
With the green meadows
It came to a standstill
The handler was at a loss
Did the green ground
The purple mounds
Lose interest
In the equine vibration
The handler complied with
The animal Instinct
It followed the hospital smell
It pursued the smell of death
Went straight to the deathbed
Breath was taking time to arise
From the darkening lungs
The stallion's nose wandered
On his face and arm
Then it stood still
Deep eye to eye communication
Between animal and human
Smile couldn't stop
Its footsteps on his lips
The fresh scent of life allured him
He could feel the doors
The stallion had opened
With love
Dwelling in them, a soft hearted soul
Love plated but pain on its core
Moss covered mountains to cross
Full of merciless piercing stones
Mind invested into a battle of memories
Battle with horrible images of courses in diaries
Both ends candles are burnt
To light the way through the six hills of torment
Flooding down cheeks are tears
Shaking rough hands of lamenting songs
Injecting the venom of fear into the spirits
Made to be passed, though hurting beyond limits
Journey of a medical student
Like a terrifying flood to expose the hidden gold
We bust ours
To help theirs.
Masters of the all-nighter,
Supporters of caffeine.
Sleep is but another word,
Far less important than fascia.
Pushing ourselves
For that extra tenth of a grade.
Somehow it doesn’t matter,
Those wise-second years tell us.
The boards will level us all,
Make our efforts worthless they say…
Our noses to our 700 pages of biochemistry,
Our pens doodling on our useless behavioral medicine books…
We ignore them, pushing on.
Together we have arrived…
With one goal in mind…
To make tons of money and marry super models…
Err,
To bust ours,
So we can help theirs…