I’m going to go ahead and give a pre-warning here that this post is all about zombies. Mostly because my family reads this blog and I don’t want to unintentionally freak anyone out with a seemingly morose and death-focused poem. Especially not after the post before this one where I was all ‘ugh dark depression’.
So yeah. Zombies.
So. This is a Mary Elizabeth Frye poem that was written in 1932.
Aside from it being kind of a beautiful sentiment and philosophy for dealing with loss, with a catchy rhythm to it…
Does anyone else think that this might be about zombies?
Or horror movie serial killers? You know? The ones that ‘die’ and then BAM there they are the next night, continuing their reign of terror, while the police and responsible adults are all ‘lalala life is good’ and all there irresponsible and horny teenage sons and daughters are running around being slaughtered?
Yeah. Because I do. And, I mean, I’m not sure how many zombie movies were around in 1932 in Baltimore, America, but I think Frye was definitely channeling some horror genre here.
I mean if I came across this poem in regards to a presumed dead person? I’d be going in search of my axe. I am not there? Dudes? We have a zombie on our hands. And if zombie movies have taught me anything, it’s that you don’t hesitate when it comes to arming yourself when you come across an empty coffin that should definitely NOT be empty.
I am a thousand winds that blow? Good Gah. Upgrade the threat level to Vampire. Someone go fetch me a stake and some freaking holy water. Everyone knows you don’t screw around with vampires. They’ll rip out your throat faster than a crazy circus clown with taste for human flesh.
I am the swift uplifting rush… of fear. I mean come on. Is there anything more uplifting that the feeling that you’re no longer alone? Better yet, you’re female, wearing stupid lingerie-style PJ’s, it’s after midnight, and the phone keeps ringing and cutting off. Yeah, I’d be feeling pretty damn uplifted too. I’d be all uplifting myself to the nearest church surrounded by armed men, and huge impenetrable walls.
Quiet birds circled flight? Is anyone else thinking vultures? Or crowes? Ravens, anyone? Yes? In any case, looking up to see a sky full of silent birds? Circling slowly overhead? Yeah, that can’t be a good thing. That’s something movies have taught me – the animals know first. If they aren’t already in on it – ZOMBIE CROW anyone?
And that final line? I am not there. I did not die. Good gah. Is there a creepier way to end a poem? That’s a total sequel alert. Like, ‘Yay the crazed pedophile killer is dead… or is he?’ Answer: No. No he is not. He is hiding under your bed, waiting for you to sleep. And then? Then he’s going to get all tortured poet on your ass. With knives.
And this? This is why I’m not allowed to watch horror movies anymore.
And that was poetry appreciation Monday with LP. (My old high school english teacher is shaking his head in horror right now.)