how would my carcass look?—
empty or full,
or apathetic or scornful to all those who pass
by my unwavering blank eyes, with the archaic
virtues of respect for the dead — no, i do not
need that. i would want to hear the music of
flies and maggots on my beautiful blue skin,
like an adornment to horrify, a sacrilege to
the ritual of burning and burying secrets,
like a gruesome display of life and all that
it comes to when you take a longer than expected
pause from breathing, and seeing through fairy-
light eyes,
or would my limbs point at them without reproach
with my breath holding the remnants of smoke,
my skin translucent, and eyes closed, as i keep
on looking, and looking, for something.
perhaps the strangeness of my stillness (coursing through
my lifeless body) would be becoming on me.
perhaps i would look wanted and loved, the way i could not
feel when alive.
perhaps being organic refuse, i would be eaten from within
and out, and thus would discover who i am beneath all
these unknown persons i borrow myself from every day.
what a terrible tragedy it would be if it is not so,
if death like life would abandon me?—
a broken boy with silver trinkets gleaming
at the end
of sunlight.
.
© Anmol Arora
Image source (Pablo Picasso, La mort de Casagemas, 1901, Paris, musée Picasso)
Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads
HA's Place 
Guess it’s best to try to live while the chances are best, you are pretty alive for being alive my friend. Death is just what it is, don’t pay it more attention than it deserves, every line you write lives.. quod erat demonstratum.
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A wonderfully crafted pondering… who i am beneath all
these unknown persons i borrow myself from every day… that is the search, the journey and the destination. What will we do once we know?
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I like the more personal aspects of the musings, the shorted word burst stanzas in this poem …. it adds that richness to the angst, the wonder, as if it’s the “adult child” pointedly pushing, demanding of death, answers, that life couldn’t or wouldn’t offer …. and yet, who is to know or say?
I really liked these stanzas …
perhaps the strangeness of my stillness (coursing through
my lifeless body) would be becoming on me.
perhaps being organic refuse, i would be eaten from within
and out, and thus would discover who i am beneath all
these unknown persons i borrow myself from every day.
they work so well for the wording … and placement within the greater whole; on the whole, this is interesting for its narration, simultaneously distant and yet very intimate … this counter-play conversation works really well 🙂
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Hey, Pat!
Thanks for your thoughtful comment! I am unable to visit your blog — it seems that you have marked it private.
I hope you’re doing well. I look forward to reading you again. 🙂
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I’m not writing much of anything at the moment, and when I need to work through and cull my words to see what I have been doing, I “dim the lights” for awhile …. I’m considering hibernation for the winter 😉
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I took a selfie of myself with my eyes closed to see how I would look dead. I immediately decided to be cremated. You know I think all of us have these moments of wondering what would we leave behind, what is going on in the inside under the depths of us. I have visited death too much in the last two years to ponder on this. I am pondering more now what I give while living. Such angst is no longer for me. This discourse to me is rather, self absorbed although I do not mean to be hateful in my words. I am more content to think about my living than dying. I agree with Pat though, who is to know or to say?
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I wonder how many people ask themselves that question, Anmol. I have, but it was a long time ago. The end is closer now and I’d prefer not to think about it. But I like the way you’ve explored it, especially in the lines:
‘…i would want to hear the music of
flies and maggots on my beautiful blue skin
like an adornment to horrify, a sacrilege to
the ritual of burning and burying secrets’;
‘perhaps being organic refuse, i would be eaten from within
and out, and thus would discover who i am beneath all
these unknown persons i borrow myself from every day’
and
‘a broken boy with silver trinkets gleaming
at the end
of sunlight’.
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“perhaps i would look wanted and loved, the way i could not
feel when alive.” So very sad.
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Not something I have considered until now. Interesting
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Can’t get much lower than in such a state that not even death would claim the person. I’m glad you thought of that, I sure would not have.
..
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Sad poem Feeling unwanted and unloved is not unusual for a sensitive soul. If you are not I am sure you will because not everyone can be so stupid.:)Hugs !
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“and seeing through fairy-
light eyes”
“a broken boy with silver trinkets gleaming
at the end
of sunlight”
Those are my favorites.
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So much to love in this poem. It is probably a good idea to look at death, the destination we are all headed for. Yes, I love the ending lines as well.
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Oh I don’t know how death will find me or how I will be remembered. Beautiful writing
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This is absolutely stellar writing… I was really pulled in from the first sentence, and to me it’s a rebuke to everything we do about death in terms of wakes and embalming… no make me carcass, soil and maggots… or burn me into ash and cinder.
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