116. Memento Mori – Mark Wunderlich

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This is an exercise in shedding our own vanity, our sense of self importance, and imagining ourselves as, well, dead.

This prompt is one that I have used with students for some time, and in it, I ask you to imagine a world in which you no longer reside. This is an exercise in shedding our own vanity, our sense of self importance, and imagining ourselves as, well, dead.

I don’t find this exercise particularly morbid. I think it’s healthy to consider one’s mortality, to imagine what it will be like to cross over into whatever awaits us after death, and to think through the ways in which we will detach from our own material form. The Tibetan Buddhist meditation of the Lojong takes one through such contemplations, as do depictions of memento mori in Western art, in which figures are often portrayed alongside a human skull.

I encourage you to perform this exercise as a form of liberation. Let your mind transcend its own home in your physical body, and set it free to contemplate what you might say.

When we breathe in air, and speak out the words of a poem, the poet has made of us a kind of instrument. We temporarily bring them back into the world, speak them out of our bodies and back into the atmosphere. Time collapses, language enacts its greatest power, and through us a voice and a mind can return from the dead. This is poetry’s greatest magic trick, and this prompt will give you a chance to anticipate that very thing.

– Mark Wunderlich

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Prompt:
Write a poem in which the speaker is dead but still possesses a consciousness and is capable of thought and speech. Include rich description and concrete physical details, as if the speaker is greedy for the sensory experience of life on earth.

You might write it as a kind of a letter in which you tell the reader something important. Or you might imagine it as an instruction manual for some future stranger in which you address what they should know about being and not being in the world. Remember that poetry lives in the minute particulars, and not in abstraction or generalities.

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Further reading:

I offer four poems for your consideration, all of which feature speakers who are dead and are notable for their rich description and physical detail. I recommend taking one of these poems and imitating it, filling in your own images, diction, and tone. You will see I have linked to my own attempt at this assignment, and my poem owes its genesis to CD Wright’s extraordinary poem “Our Dust.”

“Because I Could Not Stop for Death” by Emily Dickinson

“Mummy of a Lady Named Jemutesonekh” by Thomas James

“Our Dust” by C.D. Wright

“To Whom It May Concern” by Mark Wunderlich


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Christina Warriner

Location: New Hampshire
About: Since moving home to live with my parents, I have often thought about the generations of ancestors who have lived in our town and on this land before us for nearly four centuries. I enjoyed imagining myself as one of them and writing what I would whisper to a future descendant of our family.
Age: 26

That is my name 

nailed to the oak tree, displayed on a rusty license plate. 

The corn stalk that hugs the lamp post 

when hit by the late autumn sun, is the color of my hair. 

There’s no reason for you to know that I dyed it, 

but I was never one for keeping secrets. 

The smoke that lingers by the sky light 

after flipping buttermilk pancakes in a fry pan, 

is the timbre of my voice 

floating in tones of syrup and sugar. 

I often nourished myself with peppermint tea and chilled white wine, which if I shared with you, meant I likely talked too much. 

Take a sip 

and you can still taste my gossip and politics. 

Sometimes, I held on too tight and took on too much; these mistakes I made for the both of us. 

I enjoyed the hours I spent behind the wheel and in my own head, consumed by daydreams of first kisses and victorious uprisings. 

I should warn you that even this warm rush of hope can turn cold to the touch 

if you embrace the lies they’ll surely tell you, 

rather than yourself. 

Promise me you’ll smell the lilacs each spring. 

If they die, and the soil turns to dirt, 

cry for me.


Sarah Quirk

Location: Boulder, CO
About: I'm a writer and a young woman rediscovering play, learning to craft my narrative, forging ahead, and course correcting at most major life intersections. This poem is the dialogue that I've always imagined coming from family members who have passed, that I believe watch over me.
Age: 24

Hello, my dears,

my lovely, loving peers,

you who joined my journey in Earth school-

hello. 


I touch your lives in fingertips, in gentle

sweeps of wind, in 

memories that come to you,

in the birds and cats who visit you, I say 

hello.


The power of death is peace, 

but

the power of life is depth. So


Jump in.

Dive in.

Explore the world, 

explore your heart,

drink it in. 


You will have eternity to mull it over

but while you are alive,

be brave. 


Serene Asaari Duhaithem

Location: Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
About: I am simply a writer because the words somehow always find me. No matter what, the words shine a light for me to find a way, my way through this dark world.
Age: 21

Somewhere farther than the shore 

Deeper and deeper where the lines of the earth disappear 

Where everything comes together to merge 

Where the sun and the water become one at the end of each day 

There, you will find me… 

Buried under the pink and yellow lights 

Sometimes blue, sometimes too bright

I’ve been here before, many times in my head 

Awaiting on a small boat just large enough for myself

Through my weakened eyes, I could see moving shadows far away from the place I came from

With my fleeting imagination, I can see children running around building sand dunes and castles 

Men and women basking under the beautiful sunlight coloring their bodies, scorching their skins

Lovers walking as the sun and the moon shine a blissful light on each of their steps 

There is where it all begins and moves with chaotic steps and passionate gestures

This is where it all ends, I thought before the thought could escape me

I keep forgetting, losing slowly everything I once knew 

Stillness thrives here and silence no longer hides

The faint cries and the loud laughter come to be gone

Submerged in water so warm 

Just as I’d always liked 

They say chilly water is best for health 

But now health loses all meaning

It is of no use to me anymore  

So, in moments like these, all I crave is warmth 

It’s been so cold for so long 

So here under the lights, I let the warm waves embrace me

Lulling me in my sleep

This time is different 

For I will never know when my eyes will flutter again 

If ever I will meet another bright light 

One to look forward to or dread 

If ever I will meet a darkness  

To sulk in or rest

To you, there is nothing more worth repeating 

My words are all somewhere tucked in a fine box

Hidden under the pile of dresses I never wore 

For the dresses always made me somewhat of a bore

In that box, find my letters and my words

Letters and letters of gratitude and love  

For the ones I should’ve loved better when I had the time 

But now that I don’t, I assure you

Everything that matters is there and all else fades

So please forget me and my body

Let me stay 

Don’t look for me in the ocean 

I am gone with the waves