It’s been a while since I’ve posted a poem. And I am torn about posting today as the original form of this poem was split up into halves for August Postcard Poetry Fest and if I post it now, I wont be able to use it on a postcard next month. Oh what the heck? It is Hart Crane’s birthday, after all.
More context. In real life, I am undergoing a transformation/transition from librarian to archivist. I feel a bit like a caterpillar, but that is material for a future poem!
There are no spirits lurking in the aisles
And corners. Just cartons of documents,
Details of lives. Whether well-lived or ill,
These papers tell the story – marriage, birth,
Land acquired, taxes. Death. It’s all there.
No need for the rattling sound of zombies –
Ghosts of events yet to come – in graveyards.
Might this be the judgement we fear? The words
And deeds, archived records we leave behind
Won’t deliver us to any heaven –
Or hell. It’s just a mirage, this image
Of hereafter we’ve been trained to accept
As truth, the certain object of our faith:
Dried, folded, faded, in a dusty box.