ForumForumPoetryPoetryPoetryPoetryOn Hart Island - submitted by Stanley WarrenOn Hart Island - submitted by Stanley Warren
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 5/2/2010 8:27 PM
 
 Modified By melinda  on 5/2/2010 7:37:05 PM

On Hart Island

"The Potters Field on Hart Island shall be under control of Department of Correction, and the burial of deceased paupers therein shall continue.... "

from the Official Directory of the City of New York

i

Island of corpses made

Eight hundred thousand here are laid

Packed in boxes, stacked three deep;

They lived in crowds, in crowds they sleep.

Ten days on marble slabs they lie

Then come unclaimed, the City's dregs,

To rest with stillborns, arms, and legs

Underneath the sod and sky.

Stillborns, limbs, the named, the partly named,

The named, the maimed, the lamed,

The never-lived, the dead:

All rest together head to head

Bunched beneath the weedy plots,

Each plot some fifty bodies long.

Six hundred thousand strong

The island rots.

ii

Eight hundred thousand buried (here,

Eight hundred corpses one grave share,

Stuffed between the marker stones,

Stones chiseled by the hands of men,

Time chiseled by the hands of men

That in due time shall crumble under stones,

And stones shall crumble,

All shall tumble,

All the island tumble

To the waves,

Waves that wash the graves

And lick the jumbled bones.

Then, my living, loving, sinning, dying son,

Then (he dead shall rise,

Licked from earth by wave's salt tongue

And in one gladdening, saddening swirl shall fall;

All are dust and dust shall fall,

Dust from dust absurdly taken,

Filtered by the sea's fine comb.

Eight hundred thousand dead shall rise,

Eight hundred thousand shall forsake the tomb:

The dead shall waken.

iii

The island is a pretty place

What with sun and sand, sea and sky:

Far over water white gulls fly;

Ripples slap the shore's rock face.

Why not wake the dead

That they may see a cloud?

Wake the overused, the incomplete,

The unresisting dead:

Tear off the sheet;

Unwind the shroud;

Pry up the lid

That they may taste the lilting air.

No. No. The dead don't care;

Underneath the dead have hid.

Eight hundred thousand dead don't care.

No? Then go.

Quick. Leave.

The dead won't grieve.

So leave the wilting dead

And live.

Stanley Warren

March 30,1967

October 18,1994,

January 28, 2009 minor revisions.

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