Poem and Poetry Analysis

Elijah Blumofe

Original Poem: “Death” by Kwame Dawes

Inspired Poem: “The Visitor” by Elijah Blumov

Upon reading “Death” by Kwame Dawes, I was immediately fascinated. It is a piece which is dualistically macabre and inspirational, full of dark brooding and bemused swagger. The premise of the piece is that, if we are able to trivialize death, vis a vis jading ourselves to it through action and understanding of the past, we may be able to relinquish our own fear of death, the act of which imbues one with a terrifying fearlessness and confidence which can leave others impressionable and allow for the facilitated acquisition of one’s objectives. Paradoxically, treating life as meaningless allows one the license to lead life as fulfilling as possible, the notion of which I find quite interesting. In the extreme case of this poem, the author does not take his epiphany regarding the objective nature of death (spurred by the passing of his dog) kindly, and proceeds to not only become a nihilist, but a murderer himself, a process which is therapeutic in the sense that it allows him to construct the aforementioned attitude regarding ambivalence to death. The poem seems also to have some metaphorical racial overtones, but these I will choose to ignore, because I believe them to initiate a separate topic, one which, however valid, did not leave as hearty an impression on me.

My own poem, “The Visitor”, deals with the same concept of mortal fear, albeit with a different pattern of reasoning and situational description. In it, the protagonist realizes that, by eschewing any fear of death, he may better appreciate the life he has led up to this point, recognize his accomplishments and place in the world, and thus, may live the rest of his life in peace.

The Visitor

Death knocks at my door on January 10th, 2060 A.D., 8:37 pm.

I am 65 years old.

It is the eve of my birthday, and I have with me a multitude of guests, all in the throes of merriment.

Then, a knock.

Fighting back tears of drunken mirth, I stumble to the door cheerily.

Pray, who is it?

An old friend.

Any ominous tone lost on me, I fling aside the door, hungry for another long-lost spectre of my past whom I might reclaim in hearty embrace.

And there he stands.

He looks quite ordinary, to be honest. Indeed thin, but hardly skeletal.

His black robes look mundanely judicial.

His face does trouble me however, for it is a face I have seen countless time in my life…

Hurrying to work.

Ringing up my order.

Begging for change.

Driving a cab I had missed one time, four or so years ago.

Only at this moment however, is this registered.

Is this the Blumov residence?

Yes.

He glides in as only an angel can. A hush falls over my humble gathering.

Do you know who I am?

Yes.

I am paralyzed. My blood shivers glacially, and time stops. In these few seconds, staring at him in rapture, the sickening realization has come upon me like an unexpected wave, sending the eyes and throat awash with salt, choking, the salt of a hundred thousand of years of fresh grief.

Do you fear me?

I harken to my youth, those fearless times. Contempt for death was the highest order of manliness, or so I had read. Would I, at that time, have spat in this little man’s face?

Odin did not fear death. Leonidas did not fear death. Why should I?

Such would have been my thesis.

Then again, did anyone ever adore Odin the way my family adores me?

It is not for me that I would weep, that I would shiver with dread.

Yet the seasons have changed.

My mother and father lie beneath the earth, transformed beyond recognition.

They live in soil, and memory.

My siblings are getting on as well… my loss would hurt them to be sure, but not devastatingly so.

It seems, logically, we should get more fearless with age, as our bonds wither, and our bodies deteriorate.

For fear, it occurs to me now, is present only in those who have something of value to lose.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize how I would have cowered before this man, all those years ago, inundated as I was with blessing, with possibility.

For even an iron resolve may break under the sheer weight of love, love being synonymous with the fear of loss.

Now however? Now I am truly a king, for my lands are parched, my spoils pillaged. I am at no mercy known to the world.

I do not fear you.

The man in black knows this is truth, for he is impossible to lie to.

Death places a crown upon my head.

Relief floods my body.

I am ready, I say.

Death stares at me oddly, and chuckles.

Walk henceforth with this crown, and see yourself bloom with life once more. Tend to the seeds you have sown, for you have not reaped all just yet.

I am bewildered.

If not to take me, why have you come then?

To give you the gift of life.