It’s still Friday somewhere. Anyway, as usual, it’s hard to find poems published in a given year, so I go back to Sherwood Anderson one more time, from his anthology A New Testament. But after that, if nobody objects, I think I’ll go back to archy the cockroach until I get out of 1927 (which hopefully won’t be too much longer!). Anyhow, Sherwood Anderson presents us with “Death”:
I do not belong to the company of those who wear velvet gowns and look at the stars. God has not taken me into his house to sit with him. When his house has burned bright with lights I have stayed in the streets.
My desire is not to ascend but to go down. My soul does not hunger to float. I do not wish to pass out of the animal kingdom and into the kingdom of birds, to fold my wings and pitch into the arms of a wind that blows in from the sea. The voice of the wind does not call to me.
When I am strong and the noise of the cities roars in my ears it is my desire to be a little mole that works under the ground. I would creep beneath the roots of the grass.
I would go under the foundations of buildings.
I would creep like a drop of rain along the far, hair-like roots of a tree.
When springs come and strength surges into my body I would creep beneath the roots of grasses far out into the fields. I would go under fields that are plowed. I would creep down under the black fields. I would go softly, touching and feeling my way.
I would be little brother to a kernel of corn that is to feed the bodies of men.