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Tale Weavers: Views on Death by Emily Dickinson and John Donne #amwriting #poetry #JohnDonne #EmilyDickinson 


Thanks to Michael of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this Tale Weaver’s Prompt based on the figure of death. Emily Dickinson’s poem “I could not stop for Death” and John Donne’s Holy Sonnet – “Death Be Not Proud” seem to say exactly what needs to be said for me on the prompt. And whatever I do, I can’t think of something I could say better than these poets due regardimg the personification of death. Please enjoy!

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Credit: Google images for Reuse

Credit: Google Images for Re-Use

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1. Because I could not stop for Death (479)

By Emily Dickinson, (1830 – 1886)

http://www.poetryfoundation.org 

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 Because I could not stop for Death – 

He kindly stopped for me –  

The Carriage held but just Ourselves –  

And Immortality.

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We slowly drove – He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility – 

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We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess – in the Ring –  

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –  

We passed the Setting Sun – 

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Or rather – He passed us – 

The Dews drew quivering and chill – 

For only Gossamer, my Gown – 

My Tippet – only Tulle – 

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We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground – 

The Roof was scarcely visible – 

The Cornice – in the Ground – 

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Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses’ Heads 

Were toward Eternity – 

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(www.poets.org)

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Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud

BY JOHN DONNE

wwww.poetryfoundation.org 

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Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; 

For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow 

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. 

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, 

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, 

And soonest our best men with thee do go, 

Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery. 

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well 

And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then? 

One short sleep past, we wake eternally 

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. 

*****

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

100 Word Wednesdays, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Memories/Childhood, My Thoughts, Nature, Photography/Visual Art, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

100 Word Wednesday:  Owning His Body #amwriting #flashfiction #100WordWednesday 


Thanks to Bikurgurl for hosting #100WordWednesdays.

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Credit:Felix Russel; Saw via UnSplash

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Images, the vines, the flowers, the tribal tattoos, marking his body their presence is defining. A farmer’s son covered his body in tattoos, to lay claim to a canvas, a territory, beneath a sunless sky. But bruises so dark, red and vivid purple used to cover his limbs, his torso, his face, and even his hands. So when he chooses bright ink, a part of him heals and the bruises fade. With each work of art he becomes stronger and he returns home, sheltered by his images. He’s happy because his body is his own and no father can abuse or mother can deny; tattoos are his stories accompanying him gently as the wheat sways in the field. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.