Things I want to do Before I Die

There's only so much time
And so many things
So how do I
Fit them all in

I'll make a list
Of all the things I want
So none are missed
Get left off board

Off board of the boat
Of the bark
As it floats
To its final mooring place

Off board of the boat
In the dark
As it floats
To its final resting place

There's only so much time
And so much life
I need to taste
Before I fall upon the knife

I'll make a list
Of all the things I want
So none are missed
Get left off board

	I
	Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
	and the long journey towards oblivion.
	The apples falling like great drops of dew
	to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.
5	And it is time to go, to bid farewell
	to one's own self, and find an exit
	from the fallen self.
	II
	Have you built your ship of death, O have you?
	O build your ship of death, for you will need it.
10	The grim frost is at hand, when the apples will fall
	thick, almost thundrous, on the hardened earth.
	And death is on the air like a smell of ashes!
	Ah! can't you smell it?
	And in the bruised body, the frightened soul
15	finds itself shrinking, wincing from the cold
	that blows upon it through the orifices.
	III
	And can a man his own quietus make
	with a bare bodkin?
	With daggers, bodkins, bullets, man can make
20	a bruise or break of exit for his life;
	but is that a quietus, O tell me, is it quietus?
	Surely not so! for how could murder, even self-murder
	ever a quietus make?
	IV
	O let us talk of quiet that we know,
25	that we can know, the deep and lovely quiet
	of a strong heart at peace!
	How can we this, our own quietus, make?
	V
	Build then the ship of death, for you must take
	the longest journey, to oblivion.
30	And die the death, the long and painful death
	that lies between the old self and the new.
	Already our bodies are fallen, bruised, badly bruised,
	already our souls are oozing through the exit
	of the cruel bruise.
35	Already the dark and endless ocean of the end
	is washing in through the breaches of our wounds,
	already the flood is upon us.
	Oh build your ship of death, your little ark
	and furnish it with food, with little cakes, and wine
40	for the dark flight down oblivion.
	VI
	Piecemeal the body dies, and the timid soul
	has her footing washed away, as the dark flood rises.
	We are dying, we are dying, we are all of us dying
	and nothing will stay the death-flood rising within us
45	and soon it will rise on the world, on the outside world.
	We are dying, we are dying, piecemeal our bodies are dying
	and our strength leaves us,
	and our soul cowers naked in the dark rain over the flood,
	cowering in the last branches of the tree of our life.
	VII
50	We are dying, we are dying, so all we can do
	is now to be willing to die, and to build the ship
	of death to carry the soul on the longest journey.
	A little ship, with oars and food
	and little dishes, and all accoutrements
55	fitting and ready for the departing soul.
	Now launch the small ship, now as the body dies
	and life departs, launch out, the fragile soul
	in the fragile ship of courage, the ark of faith
	with its store of food and little cooking pans
60	and change of clothes,
	upon the flood's black waste
	upon the waters of the end
	upon the sea of death, where still we sail
	darkly, for we cannot steer, and have no port.
65	There is no port, there is nowhere to go
	only the deepening black darkening still
	blacker upon the soundless, ungurgling flood
	darkness at one with darkness, up and down
	and sideways utterly dark, so there is no direction any more
70	and the little ship is there; yet she is gone.
	She is not seen, for there is nothing to see her by.
	She is gone! gone! and yet
	somewhere she is there.
	Nowhere!
	VIII
75	And everything is gone, the body is gone
	completely under, gone, entirely gone.
	The upper darkness is heavy as the lower,
	between them the little ship
	is gone
80	she is gone.
	It is the end, it is oblivion.
	IX
	And yet out of eternity a thread
	separates itself on the blackness,
	a horizontal thread
85	that fumes a little with pallor upon the dark.
	Is it illusion? or does the pallor fume
	A little higher?
	Ah wait, wait, for there's the dawn,
	the cruel dawn of coming back to life
90	out of oblivion.
	Wait, wait, the little ship
	drifting, beneath the deathly ashy grey
	of a flood-dawn.
	Wait, wait! even so, a flush of yellow
95	and strangely, O chilled wan soul, a flush of rose.
	A flush of rose, and the whole thing starts again.
	X
	The flood subsides, and the body, like a worn sea-shell
	emerges strange and lovely.
	And the little ship wings home, faltering and lapsing
100	on the pink flood,
	and the frail soul steps out, into the house again
	filling the heart with peace.
	Swings the heart renewed with peace
	even of oblivion.
105	Oh build your ship of death, oh build it!
	for you will need it.
	For the voyage of oblivion awaits you.

From: http://www.kalliope.org/digt.pl?longdid=lawrence2001061776