The title of the thread is self-explanatory.
I'll start with a few....
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hard To Forget by Brian Andreas
I was waiting for the
longest time, she said.
I thought you forgot.
It is hard to forget, I
said, when there is
such an empty space
when you are gone.
-------------------------------------
The Invitation by Stephen Dobbyns
There are lives in which nothing goes right.
The would-be suicide takes a bottle of pills
and immediately throws up. He tries
to hang himself but gets his arm caught
in the noose. He tries to throw himself
under a subway but misses the last train.
He walks home. It is raining. He catches a cold
and dies. Once in heaven it is no better.
He mops the marble staircase and accidentally
jams his foot in the pail. All his harp strings
break. His halo slips down over his head
and nearly chokes him. Why is he here?
demands one of the noble dead, an archbishop
or a general, a leader of men: If a loser
like that can enter heaven, then how is it
an honor for us to be here as well--
those of us who are totally deserving.
But the would-be suicide knows none of this.
In the evening he returns to his little cloud house
and watches the sun set over planet Earth.
He stares down at the cities filled with people
and thinks how sad it is that they should
rush backwards and forwards as if they had
some great destination when their only
destination is death itself -- a place
to be reached by sitting as well as running.
He thinks about his own life with its
betrayals and disappointments, Regret, regret--
how he never made a softball team, how his
favorite shirts always shrank in the wash.
His eyes moisten and he sheds a few tears, but
secretly, because in heaven crying is forbidden.
Still, the tears tumble down through all those layers
of blue sky and strike a salesman rushing
between Point A and Point B. The salesman slips,
staggers, and stops as if slapped in the face.
People on the street think he is crazy or drunk.
Why am I selling ten thousand ballpoint pens?
he asks himself. Sudden his only wish is to
dance the tango. He sees how the setting sun
caresses the cold faces of the buildings.
He sees a beautiful woman and desperately wants
to ask her to stroll in the park. Maybe he will
kiss her cheek; maybe she will love him back.
You maniac, she tells him, didn't you know
I was only waiting for you to ask me?
----------------------------
Juliek's Violin by Michael Blumenthal
"Was it not dangerous, to allow your vigilance to fail, even for a moment, when at any minute death could pounce upon you? I was thinking of this when I heard the sound of a violin, in this dark shed, where the dead were heaped on the living. What madman could be playing the violin here, at the brink of his own grave? It must have been Juliek... The whole of his life was gliding on the strings -- his lost hopes, his charred past, his extinguished future. He played as he would never play again."
-- Elie Wiesel, Night
"Alnest Du den Schopfer, Welt?" ("World, do you feel the Maker near?")
-- Schiller, Ode To Joy
In the dank halls of Buchenwald,
a man is playing his life.
It is only a fragment from Beethoven--
soft, melodic, ephemeral as the sleep
of butterflies, or the nightmares of an infant,
but tonight it is his life.
In his hand, he holds the instrument,
resonant with potential. In the other,
the fate of the instrument: hairs
of a young horse strung between wood,
as the skin of a lampshade is strung between wood.
The bow glides over the strings, at first,
with the grace of a young girl brushing her hair.
Then, suddenly, Juliek leans forward
on his low stool. His knees begin to quiver,
and the damp chamber fills with a voice
like the voice of a nightingale.
Outside, the last sliver of light
weaves through the fence. A blackbird
preens its feathers on the lawn as if
to the music, and a young child watches
from the yard, naked and questioning.
But, like Shiller crying out--
Alnest Du den Schopfer, Welt?
Juliek plays on.
And the children,
as if in answer,
burn.
---------------------
Buddhist Poem by James L. Christian
The Mahayanas tell the story of a sage
who once stood on a riverbank
looking across at the opposite shore.
Although the far side
was but dimly visible
through the river mists,
he could see that it was
unspeakably beautiful.
The hills were green
and the trees were all in blossom.
So he said to himself,
"I want to go there."
There was a raft tied
at the river's edge.
He untied the raft
and began to paddle
toward the distant shore.
The jouney was long and hazardous
for the currents in midsteam were swift.
The raging rapids tossed and turned the raft,
and he had to work with all his strenght
to maintain his balance.
From the center of the river
both shores were lost from view,
and there were times when he was not sure
which way he was drifting.
But he continued paddling,
and in due time
he reached the far shore.
He got out of the raft and said,
"Ah, at last I am here.
It was a perilous journey,
but now I have reached nirvana."
He looked about him.
The hills were green
and the trees were all in blossom.
Then he turned around and looked back.
He could not see the opposite shore
whence he came.
Nor was there any river to be seen.
And there was no raft.
I'll start with a few....
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hard To Forget by Brian Andreas
I was waiting for the
longest time, she said.
I thought you forgot.
It is hard to forget, I
said, when there is
such an empty space
when you are gone.
-------------------------------------
The Invitation by Stephen Dobbyns
There are lives in which nothing goes right.
The would-be suicide takes a bottle of pills
and immediately throws up. He tries
to hang himself but gets his arm caught
in the noose. He tries to throw himself
under a subway but misses the last train.
He walks home. It is raining. He catches a cold
and dies. Once in heaven it is no better.
He mops the marble staircase and accidentally
jams his foot in the pail. All his harp strings
break. His halo slips down over his head
and nearly chokes him. Why is he here?
demands one of the noble dead, an archbishop
or a general, a leader of men: If a loser
like that can enter heaven, then how is it
an honor for us to be here as well--
those of us who are totally deserving.
But the would-be suicide knows none of this.
In the evening he returns to his little cloud house
and watches the sun set over planet Earth.
He stares down at the cities filled with people
and thinks how sad it is that they should
rush backwards and forwards as if they had
some great destination when their only
destination is death itself -- a place
to be reached by sitting as well as running.
He thinks about his own life with its
betrayals and disappointments, Regret, regret--
how he never made a softball team, how his
favorite shirts always shrank in the wash.
His eyes moisten and he sheds a few tears, but
secretly, because in heaven crying is forbidden.
Still, the tears tumble down through all those layers
of blue sky and strike a salesman rushing
between Point A and Point B. The salesman slips,
staggers, and stops as if slapped in the face.
People on the street think he is crazy or drunk.
Why am I selling ten thousand ballpoint pens?
he asks himself. Sudden his only wish is to
dance the tango. He sees how the setting sun
caresses the cold faces of the buildings.
He sees a beautiful woman and desperately wants
to ask her to stroll in the park. Maybe he will
kiss her cheek; maybe she will love him back.
You maniac, she tells him, didn't you know
I was only waiting for you to ask me?
----------------------------
Juliek's Violin by Michael Blumenthal
"Was it not dangerous, to allow your vigilance to fail, even for a moment, when at any minute death could pounce upon you? I was thinking of this when I heard the sound of a violin, in this dark shed, where the dead were heaped on the living. What madman could be playing the violin here, at the brink of his own grave? It must have been Juliek... The whole of his life was gliding on the strings -- his lost hopes, his charred past, his extinguished future. He played as he would never play again."
-- Elie Wiesel, Night
"Alnest Du den Schopfer, Welt?" ("World, do you feel the Maker near?")
-- Schiller, Ode To Joy
In the dank halls of Buchenwald,
a man is playing his life.
It is only a fragment from Beethoven--
soft, melodic, ephemeral as the sleep
of butterflies, or the nightmares of an infant,
but tonight it is his life.
In his hand, he holds the instrument,
resonant with potential. In the other,
the fate of the instrument: hairs
of a young horse strung between wood,
as the skin of a lampshade is strung between wood.
The bow glides over the strings, at first,
with the grace of a young girl brushing her hair.
Then, suddenly, Juliek leans forward
on his low stool. His knees begin to quiver,
and the damp chamber fills with a voice
like the voice of a nightingale.
Outside, the last sliver of light
weaves through the fence. A blackbird
preens its feathers on the lawn as if
to the music, and a young child watches
from the yard, naked and questioning.
But, like Shiller crying out--
Alnest Du den Schopfer, Welt?
Juliek plays on.
And the children,
as if in answer,
burn.
---------------------
Buddhist Poem by James L. Christian
The Mahayanas tell the story of a sage
who once stood on a riverbank
looking across at the opposite shore.
Although the far side
was but dimly visible
through the river mists,
he could see that it was
unspeakably beautiful.
The hills were green
and the trees were all in blossom.
So he said to himself,
"I want to go there."
There was a raft tied
at the river's edge.
He untied the raft
and began to paddle
toward the distant shore.
The jouney was long and hazardous
for the currents in midsteam were swift.
The raging rapids tossed and turned the raft,
and he had to work with all his strenght
to maintain his balance.
From the center of the river
both shores were lost from view,
and there were times when he was not sure
which way he was drifting.
But he continued paddling,
and in due time
he reached the far shore.
He got out of the raft and said,
"Ah, at last I am here.
It was a perilous journey,
but now I have reached nirvana."
He looked about him.
The hills were green
and the trees were all in blossom.
Then he turned around and looked back.
He could not see the opposite shore
whence he came.
Nor was there any river to be seen.
And there was no raft.
