Poetry Collection

The Death of the Humanities by Cate Marvin

Apparently, we are all lying here beside one

another in a darkened room around 2:00 am,

giddy as if at a sleepover, each of us waiting

to see who speaks last before the other dark

hits hard. Here we are lying side by side one

another in our caskets, chatting, on the verge

of dying. These coffins sure are comfortable,

and I love sipping my iced coffee while feeling

snuggly as if I’ve been spooned into a sleeping

bag beneath a night delicious with stars’ clarity,

stars bent to kiss my face, the eyes of a friend

who knows who my favorite author is, who gives

me Red Comet for my birthday. Why do you say

I’m dying when I am reading, holding the hand

of an author I know like a lover though they died

years before I was born? Why are you telling

me I’m dying when waking feels like a birthday?

Feels like the tendrilled feet of butterflies landing

on an open palm. Reach down into my heart,

squeeze its pump, feel its big yes. If this is dying,

I like dying. If this is a coffin, I likes its bed.

Ode on Solitude by Alexander Pope

Happy the man, whose wish and care

   A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

                           In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

   Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

                           In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcernedly find

   Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

                           Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,

   Together mixed; sweet recreation;

And innocence, which most does please,

                           With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

   Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

                           Tell where I lie.