I was thumbing through the notebook where I found yesterday’s old poem, The Unsuccessful Picnic, and found this one, inspired by the same visit to Highgate Cemetery. It’s a little shorter, which makes it somewhat more bearable; I think Peter S. Beagle’s A Fine and Private Place, which I read the summer before I went to London, was lurking in the background of this one.
The Victorians in Highgate
for General Otway
Let us hope for good plots of sod for slumbering,
nestled in among green trees and vines
and watched over by hawk-eyed angels;
hope for a bit of shade at noon-time,
and a bit of morning sun, a piece
of the sunset, a peace of the heart.
Let us hope for good company, too,
souls well-versed in the art
of conversation, good bedfellows
who’ll keep their ashes to themselves
as we perch on our stones, feet dangling,
to talk til dawn and then back to urselves
to wait for flowers.
You must understand —
we shunned the “little death” for hope,
not fear — to save them all for a longer night
lying in among the grass, to grope
in mind (if not in flesh) between the marbles,
to shed our mantles and run naked
among obelisks and pyramids.
No, we don’t envy the living and their sordid
breathing. See? It is they who are jealous,
tipping cups in our sepulchers at night.