Ruminations Compiled by Sal Moriarty
look! she is dead
no cover can cover her
look her hands are dead just as her face is dead
all of her is dead
where is the soul?
she looked no lighter on the pillow when it went
my eyes fill with water that falls from under my sunglasses
when the bells ring even the oxygen grieves
surely this is not what she was meant for
A passage from Stan Rice's collection of poems called Some Lamb (1975). I first encountered it wandering the magnificent grounds of Metairie Cemetery in New Orleans. It is inscribed on the tomb he shares with his wife, novelist Anne Rice.
The poem is about their daughter's death. Michelle “Mouse” Rice, age five, died of leukemia in 1972. As one can imagine, the child's passing cast the couple's world into a tailspin. In context, the line, “surely this is not what she was meant for” is as haunting as anything you will read.
Ultimately, Michelle's death was an important factor in Stan's decision to pursue poetry. The child's travails during the horrible illness – interminable doctor's visits, endless drawings of blood, test results, explanations of test results – contributed significantly to Anne's debut novel, Interview with the Vampire.
Michelle “Mouse” Rice now rests with her parents in beautiful New Orleans, Louisiana.
From childhood's hour I have not been
As other's were - I have not seen
As other's saw – I could not bring
My passions from a common spring -
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow – I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone
And all I lov'd – I lov'd alone
This is from a poem (Alone) attributed to Edgar Allen Poe. It was unpublished during his lifetime, but the manuscript was signed and dated March, 1829. Poe's mother died in February of that year. The dark poem, of course, fits neatly in with Poe's most famous work.
At the time of his death, age forty, he was buried in an unmarked grave in Baltimore. Poe's remains now occupy a prominent, oft-visited plot. A convincing argument can be made Poe is America's most influential poet, the world over.
My mother could recite one poem. Annabel Lee.
Let me tell you about heartache and the loss of god
Wandering, wandering in hopeless night
Out here in the perimeter there are no stars
Out here we IS stoned
Immaculate
This is the closing passage from Jim Morrison's poem, Stoned Immaculate. If you are a fan of The Doors, you've probably encountered it before. Morrison, a rock star if ever there was one, struggled with that identity as his primary ambition was that of a poet. It was a tough sell, famous as he was for his leather pants, long black mane, guttural screams, and run-ins with the law.
Of himself, he once said, “I think of myself as an intelligent, sensitive human being with the soul of a clown, which always forces me to blow it at the most important moments.”
He died in Paris in 1971, age twenty-seven, under mysterious circumstances. Morrison's final resting place, at Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, is one of the most visited graves in the world. He rests near such luminaries as Marcel Proust and Oscar Wilde.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
This famous passage is from F. Scott Fitzgerald's masterpiece, The Great Gatsby. Fitzgerald, and his southern bride, Zelda, were the embodiment of the roaring twenties. The novel was published at the height of the era, 1925, and for the uninitiated (meaning those who've never read it), it's probably what comes to mind when the book is mentioned: flappers, speakeasies, hedonism.
Of course, if you have read it, you know the raucous jazz age is just background to Gatsby's pursuit of Daisy, the sweetheart of his youth. He's made shady millions in order to buy a palace across Long Island Sound from socialite Daisy and her husband, Tom Buchanan. He spends his nights apart from the parties he hosts (hoping they might attract Daisy), standing instead, staring across the water at the green light illuminating Daisy's dock.
Fitzgerald died in Hollywood in 1940, age forty-four, attempting to resurrect his career. Zelda, lost to mental illness years prior, died in a fire at the hospital where she was a patient in 1948, age forty-seven. They rest together in Maryland. The above passage, the last line from The Great Gatsby, is their epitaph.
