Posted on by Bhagavati (Sharon) Nani

The beauty of endings & death

I heard this amazing recording of “The Last Rose of Summer” and it touched something very deep inside me. It’s not just that my friend, Sofia Sala, has an incredible voice and exquisite artistry. It’s the depth of feeling that she conveys through the words and the music.

Arranged by Philip Lawson; poetry by Thomas Moore

Then, not more than thirty minutes later, I read on another friend’s Facebook profile this poem by Mary Oliver titled, “When Death Comes.” It felt like a one-two punch of profound depth combined with extreme beauty.

I’ve been reflecting on both all day.

When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

~ Mary Oliver

4 Replies to “The beauty of endings & death”

  1. Beautiful! My favorite Mary Oliver poem (from long ago) on death/loss is:

    In Blackwater Woods

    Look, the trees
    are turning
    their own bodies
    into pillars

    of light,
    are giving off the rich
    fragrance of cinnamon
    and fulfillment,

    the long tapers
    of cattails
    are bursting and floating away over
    the blue shoulders

    of the ponds,
    and every pond,
    no matter what its
    name is, is

    nameless now.
    Every year
    everything
    I have ever learned

    in my lifetime
    leads back to this: the fires
    and the black river of loss
    whose other side

    is salvation,
    whose meaning
    none of us will ever know.
    To live in this world

    you must be able
    to do three things:
    to love what is mortal;
    to hold it

    against your bones knowing
    your own life depends on it;
    and, when the time comes to let it
    go,
    to let it go.

  2. Sophia’s ephemeral self-harmonies evoke goosebumps and tears every time I listen. I pray that one day all my inner voices will harmonize with such beauty. Bless you for sharing this astral preview.

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