Posts Tagged ‘ death ’

What Cancer Takes Away by Anne Boyer | The New Yorker

Illustration by Bianca Bagnarelli

When I got sick, I warned my friends: Don’t try to make me stop thinking about death.

Source: What Cancer Takes Away | The New Yorker

Agnès Varda, Influential French New Wave Filmmaker, Dies at 90 – The New York Times

 

Ms. Varda explored the texture of daily life and philosophical ruminations with a groundbreaking visual style.CreditPhotofest

Wednesday Poem | 3 Quarks Daily

Oxygen

Oxygen—died on March 12, 2012.
At first, they came in heavy green
canisters. Then a large rolling
machine that pushed air day and
night. When my mother changed her
clothes, she had to take the tube out
of her nose. She stopped to catch her
breath, as if breath were constantly
in motion, as if it could be chased.
I’m not sure when I began to notice
her panic without the oxygen, in the
way we don’t notice a leaf turning
red or an empire falling. One day, it
just appears, as if it had been there
all along. Like the hospice staff with
their papers, bags of medicine, their
garlands of silence. Like grief, the
way it dangles from everything like
earrings. The way grief needs oxygen.
The way every once in a while, it
catches the light and starts smoking.
The way only my grief will die with
me. The way grief will cleave and
grow like antlers.by Victoria Chang
from Narrative Magazine

Source: Wednesday Poem | 3 Quarks Daily

kA – i wISH (dEATH pOEM) (hONOR kILLED tHE sAMURAI) (2016) – YouTube

OPLAY

Galina Rymbu; Poems – palmermethode

the moving space of the revolution
you think you’re Nekrasov or something, bitch?
war machines all along the roadside
the functionary of the whip
took a taste
little dialogues going on in a black bar
conspirators sleep
in butovo, golianovo, khimki
halted by knowledge
bought on sale
but my beloved isn’t sleeping
what will you do
but my lover isn’t sleeping
what should I tell him
a boy in a freshly bought che guevara t-shirt
thrashing about incoherently in a jail cell
in his face you can see a beast, a bear,
pieces of a wolf, a machine gun report
the hallways of our houses are covered with slime
livelihood leaves no space for life
and no strength to choose death
so they choose struggle
washing the bodies of the dead with the red nightmare
buying your son a toy out of inertia
hinting at war
but my beloved isn’t sleeping
she’s crossed over the barrier
but my lover isn’t sleeping
he’s already setting everyone free
though he says: the liberation narrative is dead
and this autumn the sacrificial smoke of animals will rise into the air
this autumn a pale fire
we gave ghosts the keys to our apartment
people with no savings come out to meet us
this autumn rips your heart out
it screams, “where is your heart?”
and everything inside burns
the body is a travelling puppet show of criticism, fury, horror
and there’s no impulse anymore
to tear off one’s shirt, to tear away and stomp down the wet highway
these are the words of someone who’s never known age
for someone who
never loved and died

Source: Galina Rymbu; Poems – palmermethode

When Old News Is Good News: The Effect of 6 Elderly New Yorkers on One Middle-Aged Reporter – The New York Times

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Helen Moses and John Leland at the Hebrew Home in Riverdale, N.Y. CreditEdu Bayer for The New York Times

No, I did not get depressed spending time with old people. I became more patient, less anxious, more capable of loving, less afraid of death and decline.

Which is to say, more like an old person. And grateful for it.  – John Leland. The Effect of 6 Elderly New Yorkers on One Middle-Aged Reporter – The New York Times

Irina Ratushinskaya, Soviet Dissident and Writer, Dies at 63 (4 March 1954, Odessa – 5 July 2017, Moscow)

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Poems Ms. Ratushinskaya wrote on cigarette papers in prison.
Credit Marianne Barcellona/The LIFE Images Collection, via Getty Images

And I will tell of the first beauty I saw in captivity.
A frost-covered window! No spy-holes, nor walls,
Nor cell-bars, nor the long endured pain —
Only a blue radiance on a tiny pane of glass.Irina Ratushinskayafrom one of the soap poemsIrina Ratushinskaya