On Death and Gratitude

Billy Collins said that every poem is about death and gratitude. Recently I had the privilege of attending a small discussion group examining the works of the English metaphysical poets. John Donne was discussed one night. While reading his famous poem, “Death Be Not Proud,” we discussed the way Donne addresses death. He personifies death and seems to use his traditional Anglican faith to show death to be an insignificant thing – “one short sleepe past, we wake eternally.”

As I looked at the poem, however, it struck me that Donne does not actually seem to be acknowledging his own mortality. He belittles death and says things that one would think appropriate and expected when affirming one’s religious faith. But does he really come to terms with the fact that he indeed will die? How does his recognition of death affect the way he lives his life?

As synchronicity would have it, on the same day we discussed Donne’s poem, one of my blogger friends posted the following poem by Mary Oliver. Perhaps it is due to the times in which each poem was written – Mary Oliver is a contemporary American poet, John Donne a 17th century English poet – but it seems to me that Oliver demonstrates a healthier recognition of death, and a more overt expression of gratitude. Read the two poems for yourself and see what you think. Feel free to disagree or offer a different opinion on the topic.



Death Be Not Proud
By John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

***

 

When Death Comes

By Mary Oliver

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox;

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth

tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened

or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

*****

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