The Ancient Modern
Eighteen Death Haiku / Joshua Alan Sturgill
α
Through this world of tin
and paper, a hungry mouse
searched in vain for food
β
In this I’m blameless:
my eyes, though blind, were always
turned toward the sun
γ
Bells no longer ring
to mark the noon, the evening.
Night yet keeps its hour
δ
Am I almost born?
To find the answer, I must
become the question
ε
Thought and speech I used
as weapons. My words are now
judges at my trial
ζ
Eyes are closed, but don’t
mistake me for one asleep.
All dreaming has ceased
η
The modest oak tree
keeps its winter cloak of leaves
to hide my ascent
θ
What can pardon us?
When prayers dim, is death itself
a last petition?
ι
To those I have loved:
for your sake we are parted.
Wisely use your years
κ
To teach us union
and separation: this is
what bodies are for
λ
The sparrows told me
(though I did not understand)
depth is in all height
μ
The stream pours out life
freely. Fish receive it with
joy. But stones refuse
ν
When as many breaths
remain as years were given,
the bright door appears
ξ
Light is blood, matter
bone. Each star is the womb of
a young universe
ο
All illusion dies;
only truth enters the veil.
How will I survive?
π
I learned my first word
only yesterday. Now time
bids me be silent
ρ
…rain, rain, go away
don’t come back another day…
All hope, a child’s rhyme!
ς
Frost on a gravestone
revealed and devoured
by the careless dawn
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