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William Oxley

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At the Grave of Baudelaire

(for Howard and Leah Fritz)

Stone-packed acres, pocked toy town
of death, gutted mausoleums,
and you, mon frère, for all your renown
shoved in the family tomb
of despised relatives, way off
from where a sculptured figure alone
ponders by the grey graveyard wall.

On your own public cenotaph an angel?
Or is it something of you
looks down at your stone-bandaged corpse,
strange chiselled alter ego
bas-reliefed in heaven or hell?

Thin trees and bushes collect sunlight,
throw doily patterns on death's bric-à-brac
in the cemetery of Montparnasse.
But it does not depress.
For on this day of my long-weddedness,
making this odd pilgrimage
I sense all flowers of evil wither
like the world's infinity of lies –
and much else of which you despaired.

For something goes on of those loved
            who have been true, who have cared:
out of the maggot-ridden earth
            sweetest thoughts have their birth.

 

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