Scything

by Joanne Lowery, Diane Kistner (Editor)

As the only species aware of its mortality, people have always had a morbid preoccupation with death. Our agrarian forefathers anthropomorphized their fear into the Grim Reaper, whose swipe symbolized the unexpected moment of life's end. Few of us own a scythe or know how to use one, but that swish still represents the surprise of hearing about someone's death and makes us tremble at the thought of how quickly we will pass into nonexistence. The now familiar Grim Reaper figure has outlasted four or five centuries, making appearances at costume balls and in New Yorker cartoons. He's forever here among us, maybe even sorting his socks, while providing fodder for black humor and verse. Both playful and somber, these poems improvise a traditional symbol, mocking the Reaper's mocking of our mortality.

Genres: Poetry

30 pages, Paperback

First published October 18, 2010

Reviews

[Jen · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is a fantastic chapbook of dark humor composed of 23 poems personifying death, the first being "As to whether Death sorts his socks" and the last being "Death operates a drawbridge."

This chap is full of delightful, nuanced phrases and many of the poems start with the trivial and wind up with a punch that left me thinking, "Wow, yeah, death is like that"--and chuckling. I had several passages highlighted to possibly quote but have decided to provide my favorite (on first reading--I could see it changing on a second or third read) in full. This book is one of Futurecycle's chapbooks and I got the ebook free during one of their Saturday amazon giveaways. I encourage anyone to nab it, read it, and share your favorite in a review. I have no doubt you'll have a favorite.

Death unclogs the sink

of necessity: its very function
terminated by grease and lettuce leaves,
unidentified detritus floating in the scummy water.

For this he must exchange scythe for plunger,
engage in rhythmic push and pull
of the inverse rubber bowl,
create subterranean tides in tubular elbows.
Bits and pieces of the past emerge and swirl
even as a slight receding begins.

For those who equate life with blockage
it comes as no surprise to feel
the bottom drop out, the clockwise sucking
and torrential dilation, the dark S
finally snaking through the trap.
Our glug glug is music to his ears.

[FutureCycle Press · Rating 5 out of 5]

We are the publisher, so all of our authors get five stars from us. Excerpts:


DEATH GOES TO THE BARBERSHOP

lured by a twirling pole of blood and candy
and macho camaraderie, Bernie’s gossip,
the chance to scuffle hair on a tile floor.

He abhors being hirsute, no sideburns
grace his cheeks, and a beard is too barbaric—
he needs to be sleek, not fluffy,
as he sidewinds our shaggy world.

And he loves how the white cape puffs
then drapes his bony shoulders,
the snicker-snack of scissors circumventing
his skull, how clippers sing,
the moan of witch hazel.

And these things sharpen him:
the blurred spin of a chair,
the hand mirror’s view behind,
how the razor puts scythe to shame,

that shipshape feeling no longer overgrown.
He is past gray or silver or bald.
His dome gleaming fluorescent,
little bits of what was loved
go home with us and prickle.


AT THE FARMER’S MARKET, DEATH

recoils at the fecundity, rows of seasonal wares
stacked like cannonballs, buckets of bouquets,
local honey, crocheted bibs and booties
stacked up even as their maker dips her hook
to make more, all-natural cheesecake,
fresh strawberries, and mushrooms light as air.

Good morning, asparagus a dollar a pound.
Good morning, he grins, robe trailing
the center aisle on his way to scythe
a sample slice of melon.
Delphinia wilt from his passing
and a perfect peach suddenly oozes.

Slowly the cornucopia empties.
Crates and baskets return empty
into the backs of trucks at noon.
He walks to the parking lot
with a pot of scarlet begonias,
pockets bulging with pilfered produce—
his share, for now, of earth’s profits.