J. R. SOLONCHE
When I Die
When I die, I do not want
to be buried. I do not want
to decompose, slowly, agonizingly,
like a rotten tree trunk, melting,
eroding away, season after season.
I do not want to be buried.
I want to be burned like the oak
struck by lightning in the storm,
splintered, scorched and charred.
I want to be smoke and ashes,
smoke swirling upward in the air,
ashes blown by the winds over the river.
I want my transformation instantaneous
and full of light, to dazzle like a shooting star,
to astonish like a magician’s trick.
I want to disappear in a flash.
I want you to gasp, to point at nothing.
I want you to exclaim, “How did he do that?”
Today
Today I did not listen to the radio.
Today I listened to the birds, the dogs,
the children, a new roof going on.
Today I did not read the newspaper.
Today I read a letter from a cousin,
a biography of Stephen Crane, a haiku.
Today I did not watch television. Today
I watched a hawk, a cloud, a new roof
going on, a dragonfly. Today was how
it used to be every day. Today was
the way it was a long time ago. Today
was how every day was before the world
got bigger than our lives. Today was
the way every day was when the whole
world was the world of our small town.
Today was the same size every day was
when the world was the size of a garden.
Nominated for the National Book Award and twice-nominated for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of over forty books of poetry and co-author of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.