Poems about suicide/death/mental illness

[hahabye]

I love poems - isn't it wonderful how so much can be captured in such a short piece of text?!

Here are two of my favourites:

Not Waving but Drowning
BY STEVIE SMITH

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

and

The View From Halfway Down

The weak breeze whispers nothing
the water screams sublime.
His feet shift, teeter-totter
deep breaths, stand back, it's time.

Toes untouch the overpass
soon he's water-bound.
Eyes locked shut but peek to see
the view from halfway down.

A little wind, a summer sun
a river rich and regal.
A flood of fond endorphins
brings a calm that knows no equal.

You're flying now, you see things
much more clear than from the ground.
It's all okay, or it would be
were you not now halfway down.

Thrash to break from gravity
what now could slow the drop?
All I'd give for toes to touch
the safety back at top.

But this is it, the deed is done
silence drowns the sound.
Before I leaped I should've seen
the view from halfway down.

I really should've thought about
the view from halfway down.
I wish I could've known about
the view from halfway down—

Share your favourites!

 

[heraclitus23]

The Australian poet, Michael Dransfield:

[we are the freaked out capital's strange suicide team]

we are the freaked out capital's strange suicide team

we are the freaked out
capital's strange suicide team

helping each other out of life
or tentatively saving

each other from the razor
from the big question

i had four means of ending me
they searched & confiscated three

i was so smashed when they
searched that they're holding

enquiries but i have
to be reminded

four ways to die
four ways to stay alive

survival is the password
spread it around

let those who want to ride it out
help those who are past caring

who crave
only oblivion's

swift perils

 

[FuneralCry]

 

[Deleted member 8579]

Sleep

COME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving
Lock me in delight awhile;
Let some pleasing dreams beguile
All my fancies; that from thence
I may feel an influence
All my powers of care bereaving!

Though but a shadow, but a sliding,
Let me know some little joy!
We that suffer long annoy
Are contented with a thought
Through an idle fancy wrought:
O let my joys have some abiding!

Often attributed to John Fletcher alone, but actually taken from the play "The Woman Hater" co-written by Francis Beaumont.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Schlafen, Schlafen, nichts als Schlafen!
Kein Erwachen, keinen Traum!
Jener Wehen, die mich trafen,
Leisestes Erinnern kaum,
Daß ich, wenn des Lebens Fülle
Niederklingt in meine Ruh',
Nur noch tiefer mich verhülle,
Fester zu die Augen tu!

Friedrich Hebbel, from "Dem Schmerz sein Recht"
Literal translation (not mine):

To sleep, to sleep, nothing but to sleep!
No awaking, no dream!
Of those sorrows that I suffered,
hardly the faintest recollection.
So that I, when the fullness of life
reverberates into my rest,
I will only cover myself even more deeply,
and more tightly close my eyes!

 

[motel rooms]

The Sick Rose

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

 

[WornOutLife]

I've just come up with this one: (booze inspires me!)

"I had a dream last night,
Oh little dream of my soul,
I was dreaming of death,
That in my arms she was..."

(it gives me some peace of mind to think of death as if "it" was a woman! I dunno why lol)

 

[Deleted member 8579]

And now for the superbly obscure (and superbly depressed) Count Eric Stenbock:

ODE TO THE EAST SEA

My heart is pierced, my spirit breaketh,
My tears are salter than thy brine,
My soul with broken passion acheth,
Take me to thee, O Mother mine.

"Poor stricken soul, what dost thou weeping?
Are thou then weary of thy life?
Would'st thou be as the dead that, sleeping,
Have passed from passion, pain and strife?"

Would that I could dissolve in tears,
If tears were given me to weep.
Have I not lived these many years—
And all that I long for now is sleep?

My life is blank, and dark, and dreary,
Undone is all that I desired,
Kiss me, for I am very weary,
Lay me to sleep, for I am tired.

'Tis a soft bed, a feathery pillow,
Oh, let me rest upon thy wave;
Lull me to sleep upon thy billow,
And let thy waters be my grave.

 

[motel rooms]

No S. Plath or A. Sexton yet? How is that possible?

Wanting to Die


Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnamable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.

I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.

Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.

To thrust all that life under your tongue!--
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.

-- Anne Sexton

 

[Deleted member 8579]

Some more Stenbock:

CRADLE SONG

Sleep on, my poor child, sleep;
Why must thou wake again?
Thou are but born into a world of woe,
Of agony unending, deep,
Of long-protracted pain.

A faint light is thrown on thine eyes,
Alas! thy right to joy is plain:
I see thou dream'st of Paradise,
And thou wilt only wake to pain.
Why must thou wake again?

Wert thou not born with tears and travail?
Thy first cry was a wail;
Life is a mystery, strange and sad,
A wondrous riddle to unravel,
But who shall lift the vail?

Sleep on, my poor child, sleep,
Naught is so sweet as sleep;
Not all the joys of love,
The tears that lovers weep;
Amber and coral from the deep,
Are not so sweet as sleep.

"Sleep on, my poor child, sleep;
Sleep on," the mother said,
"I will sit here and weep."
She looked on her child, asleep,
And saw the child was dead:
"'Tis well," the mother said

 

[signifying nothing]

The Suicide by Jorge Luis Borges
(a translation)

Not a star will be left in the night.
The night itself will not remain.
I will die and with me,
the intolerable weight of the universe.

I shall erase the buildings, the coins,
the continents and faces.
I shall erase the accumulated past.
I will make dust of history, dust of dust.

Now, I am looking upon the final sunset.
I am hearing the last bird.
I bequeath nothing to no one.

 

[ShePastAway]

I've just come up with this one: (booze inspires me!)

"I had a dream last night,
Oh little dream of my soul,
I was dreaming of death,
That in my arms she was..."

(it gives me some peace of mind to think of death as if "it" was a woman! I dunno why lol)

So creative, like it! Interesting personification too, death, particularly in western culture and literature, is often personified as a male. You're version has almost romantic take, which is also very common to literature and in art, "Death and the maiden" being a popular motif.

As in the short poem by Matthias Claudius (1740-1815) 'Der Tod und das Mädchen' :

Das Mädchen:
Vorüber! Ach, vorüber!
Geh, wilder Knochenmann!
Ich bin noch jung! Geh, Lieber,
Und rühre mich nicht an.
Und rühre mich nicht an.

Der Tod:
Gib deine Hand, du schön und zart Gebild!
Bin Freund, und komme nicht, zu strafen.
Sei gutes Muts! ich bin nicht wild,
Sollst sanft in meinen Armen schlafen!

English translation:

The Maiden:
Pass me by! Oh, pass me by!
Go, fierce man of bones!
I am still young! Go, dear,
And do not touch me.
And do not touch me.

Death:
Give me your hand, you beautiful and tender form!
I am a friend, and come not to punish.
Be of good cheer! I am not fierce,
Softly shall you sleep in my arms!

Some art:

Death and the maiden - PJ Lynch

G C Stanton - Death and the maiden

A Hering - Der Tod und das Mädchen

 

[hahabye]

Thank you all for sharing. It is painful to imagine what inspired these poems, but so beautiful to take them in at the same time.

 

[brokenwaves]

when you die - kai cheng thom

i will be chopping vegetables
when you die
i chop so many vegetables these days, the way you taught me
blade held slantwise, angled away from the hand, do you remember
my six-year-old eyes, so wide with wonder
at the speed with which you sliced
carrots became orange coins, potatoes became cubes, like magic?
i was mesmerized by how quickly you could cut, how deep.
"i started working in a kitchen when i was your age," you told me
Cantonese syllables falling short and choppy on my ears
matching the taktaktak of your knife on the cutting board,
"i saw a man lose a finger once. one careless slice, finger gone!
forever."
i learned from you that knives can only cut one way
magic only works one way
you don't get back what you've cut off
so now that we are a continent apart
i will not know it when you die. i'll hear
over the phone, perhaps by email, after the fact.
but the moment itself is lost to me, cut off, cut out
by words and time and geography, all knives
i will be chopping vegetables when you die, nonchalant
steam rising from the pot on the stove, and perhaps
as you exhale your last breath
close your eyes,
go still,
my hand will slip
blood flowing between carrot slices, escaping
into my soup, so bitter, and sweet
the way blood always tastes.

--and another one because i love poetry a bit too much & this came to mind also--

Crush a Pearl [Its Powder] - christopher soto

The night Rory died [he moved the chair]. His blonde locks fell
& we'll never be the same.

I moved to the beach [thrust my hands into the mud]. Broke the
Jaw of every clam, hoping to find him.

His pearly smile [like a broken necklace] thudded to the floor &
Scattered about // my feet.

Once, Rory almost drowned // in the bathtub. His pubic hairs
Curled like broken strings // on a harp.

Once, Rory was a starfish [starfish cannot drown]. We watched sky
Burn & fall [like terrible angels].

We were so alive. My heart // a red cardinal // resting between two
Rib cages. Its wings expanding. Rory—

The night he died // I went to the beach. Waves beat statically
Against the fins of mermaids.

I tried to call his cell phone [but he didn't answer]. My body was
A match // his memory was a flame.

My tears were gasoline. Bonfires were scattered along the coast &
Fires pawed the sky // like hungry dogs.

Why did the curtains not flail their arms?! // How could they watch
Rory, hanging // quiet??

Each night, I dreamt about Rory. [My teeth fell into his neck] like
Shiny white guillotines.

Each morning, I gnawed on dim light bulbs // I wrestled with lightning
[& dragged myself into the shower]

Why // why won't the angels stop plucking their wings from passing-
Pigeons? [His wings were stolen].

New lovers plagiarize, say awkward things & yearn. They ask to
See my pretty smile. . .

Who smiles // when the sky [swallows] its stars?

 

[motel rooms]

Boy

Boy speaks, "Follow me."
Through the old city streets
you follow him, past the tents,
through the fog and excrement.

Smile at him. He smiles back,
leads you past wooden shacks
and open gutters. Don't fall in.
Put your feet in his footprints.

Bullet holes in the walls
form a map of the world.
Giant Door with a key.
Boy turns, "Follow me."

Young boy, in your face
every loss I can trace.
I follow you, I enter in.
Put my feet in your footprints.

-- PJ Harvey

 

[Dear Agony]

This is hard, I'm a big poetry enthusiast. But I'll chose my favorites:



I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?

Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?——

Its snaky acids hiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.

- "Elm" by Sylvia Plath.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.

then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

-"Bluebird" by Charles Bukowski.

 

[hahabye]

Was cleaning up my old PC and found a song/poem I wrote 5 years ago.

I am not even close to being a (talented) poet, but though I might share anyways since 5 years later I feel exactly the same as I was when writing this one:

(I wrote it in my native language, so this is a translation)


My guardian angel is tired of life,

He feels I was not destined to grow old.

So he shot himself in the head seven times,

While the trees whispered ''What a beautiful life".



Having shot himself, he ran through the fields,

The was no more sound, nor sight, just

A starry sky and a shiny spirit,

Fading into a dark, frightful night.



My guardian angel cut off his wings,

And jumped through the window seven times.

I'm afraid of what was and of what will be,

And I walk with my eyes closed, counting the steps



Having jumped through the window, he ran through the fields,

And where he was he will be no more, even though it will seem like

There's trace of foot imprints and an echo of wail,

But a silence in mind and a silence forever.

 

[FuneralCry]