They Tell You, You are Going to Die

Summary

This poem contemplates the emotional landscape of imminent death, reflecting on the ephemeral nature of life and the beauty found in acceptance and the present moment.

Abstract

The poem, dedicated to Brittany Maynard, delves into the themes of mortality and memory, likening life's end to abandoned mementos and unread poetry. It challenges the romanticized notion of beauty in truth, suggesting that poets may have concealed the banality of existence behind metaphors. The narrative touches on the futility of trying to slow down time, especially when faced with a terminal diagnosis, and the irony of life's hurried pace in the face of death's finality. The poem embraces a defiant stance against cynicism, advocating for the appreciation of life's fleeting moments, and ultimately finds solace in the stillness that accompanies the departure of transient beauty.

Opinions

The author implies that poets have historically idealized the concept of beauty in truth, potentially misleading readers about the nature of existence.
There is a sense of resignation in the realization that one's appearance and being are forever suspended at the moment of death.
The poem suggests that the reality of death strips away the romanticism of life, leaving one to face the mundane aspects of existence.
The use of alcohol as a metaphor for coping with the pain of a terminal illness highlights the ineffectiveness of such measures against the relentless progression of time.
The author expresses a form of nihilism, acknowledging the insignificance of proving poets wrong in the face of impending death.
The poem conveys a deep appreciation for the present moment, emphasizing that the true beauty lies in the stillness when all else has faded away.

A poem of finality

-for Brittany Maynard

and memories turn to thrift store donations you’ll never drop off. Life becomes that book of poems you forgot on the hotel nightstand, a ticket stub stuck somewhere in its middle, reflections taking on an abstract sensation of semi-permanence, a goose-fleshed knowledge: this is as old as I’m ever going to look, as I’m ever going to be.

It seems the poets lied when they said beauty resides in truth. It seems they knew existence is itself cliché, best experienced as a drinking game, leaving subtle clues in their work: every time you hear the word moon, take a drink. You’ll never see the leaves turn gold again. The word leaves, take a drink. There’s nothing painless about this choice. Pain: drink.

Getting drunk dulls the edge of the knife slicing time’s tomato-skinned rope, but when you wish it most to go slow it quickens like water spilled across a polished black piano, running off in all directions, away from the empty glass, a kind of messy big bang.

It’s cynicism, like knowing the stars don’t exist, but admiring them anyway, because fuck cynicism until the moon comes back in style. Take a drink. When they say you’ve got six months to live, remind them they have less to prove the poets wrong: The stillness is the beauty, when the beauty is gone.