I received word today that "Death Mask" (Poem XVI; reprinted below) has been accepted for publication. Once again it will be within a Forward Poetry anthology: Forward Poetry Regionals 2011 - A World Of Verse. This follows my submission of the work in early July to the publishing company's 2011 Regionals Collections competition.
This competition is the same in which "Epyllion I" was submitted and subsequently published last year.
The publication date is 30 November 2011.
Poem XVI - Death Mask
A portrait perfectly moribund,
long had she left the sun;
the fever now sets her face,
her flame has lost its pace.
Sweat bedews her wan skin,
tears telling of future that has been.
As fingers gnaw at a noxious bed,
nothing more will ever be said.
She hears murmurs by the bedside
from those who had mollified and lied:
their hollow words becoming more indistinct,
the dimming of lights growing succinct.
The matters that raked or reminisced
are remnant flurries, and both missed.
Her weakening grasp to her blares,
resounding loud in the thickening air.
There had been a girl with such a laugh,
whose voice is now wine in a leaking carafe.
And a soft, scented hand will not caress,
will not run fingers through youthful tress.
And a boy: there had been a boy, and love;
she had once loved (dare she think thereof?).
But his smile heightens what is already sown—
this is the most she has ever felt so alone.
Convivial in melancholy's gainful time,
doom is wielding its hand, committing its crime;
cascading like the pain in her muted cries,
like the fear etching itself about her eyes.
Black draperies accent the intent with such candour,
though the panting of thought is so much grander.
The nothings in the room impress unavoidably:
the stark last things that she will ever see.
At last the gaunt gentleman has returned
with his look of apathy—and concern.
Or is it the lady of the impending storm
regarding between the flitting forms?
And what is that behind the door,
skulking now along the floor?
She is tightly grasped in its scheme;
it has burrowed deep in her bitter dream.
It comes close—creeping, creaking—
as she turns her head, speaking:
"I think it is time for us to go.
What is next? I wish to know."
When morning came, and dawn sung,
she was gone with a breath—the deed, done.
Nothing was left but the cold, vacant shell;
nothing but the mask Death had moulded so well.
M.M. — September-November MMX
