No Peace in Death
PREPARING for retirement is one thing, preparing for old age is quite another. Many the retirement plan or hopes have been dashed or derailed by either unforeseen circumstance, or perhaps a change of position or attitude when the days of ‘ laying on’ in bed became a reality, and similarly, the path down the old age track is potholed with many an ambush or bump.
But, by and large, if one is lucky and healthy, lots of wants and wishes can get ticked off the ol’ bucket list, before the body wanes or the will weakens, and eventually the same ol’ bucket gets kicked into touch, as it were.
But, preparations for death, for the actual moment of death itself, that’s an altogether entirely different kettle of fish. Organisation and rationale as the pulse weakens and the breathing lightens? What is the likelihood or what price the odds that we would ever find ourselves in a position of control at that very moment? Master of the very final tick-tock as the last grain of sand drops through the hourglass of our existence? Remote to say the very least. But what a majesty of wonder and achievement if we were to pull it off. Surely this, above all else would constitute one’s best laid plan? But we are only too aware of what happens to the best laid plans of mice and men, are we not?
In her poem ‘Dying’, Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) creates the stillness of the very moment and the atmosphere of her actual death. The fading buzzing of a fly leads us in to the total silence around the deathbed. Then we are introduced to the still room that will contain the death, and all those who stand patiently by, awaiting it’s arrival for the final act. All is calm. All is under control. Even the abandonment of all worldly possessions, displays a final understanding and complete acceptance of the removal of the soul from this physical body of earthly function. All has gone completely to plan, I remain in complete control to the absolute very last, as I breathe my last. Pull out that plug for me, ring the undertaker, and close the door on your way out. Peacefully.
But Dickinson teases us, or more likely, totally and bitterly frustrates herself. She reintroduces that fly. That buzzing fly. The awful disgusting creature that would do away with our flesh, returns. It respects neither moment nor body. It interrupts the peace, it is an unwelcome invader and all that was comfortable and quiet is thrown into disarray.
The perfect death or moment of dying is as unattainable as we must fear, and well we should fear, because it has no respect, there is no easy way and, most likely it will be grossly unpleasant and bleak. Like the black December rain outside, banging against my window.
Dying
I heard a fly buzz when I died; The stillness round my form Was like the stillness in the air Between the heaves of storm
The eyes beside had wrung them dry, And breaths were gathering sure For that last onset, when the king Be witnessed in his power.
I willed my keepsakes, signed away What portion of me I
Could make assignable,– and then There interposed a fly,
With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz, Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed and then I could not see to see.
Fógra: Like most of the work of Emily Dickinson, this poem was given a title posthumously for publication, and there were also some very minor tweaks to the rhyming scheme.
John J Kelly is a multiple award-winning poet from Enniscorthy. He is the cofounder of the Anthony Cronin Poetry Award with the Wexford Literary Festival and co-ordinator of poetry workshops for schools locally.
Each week, John’s column will deal mainly with novels, plays and poems from both the Leaving Certificate syllabus and Junior Certificate syllabus. kellyjj02@gmail.com