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Darkface at Dusk
“Death is swallowed up in victory” —1 Cor. 15:4
At twilight, as I walked in solitude
Along a country lane, unpaved and worn,
Past gloomy fields, of springtime’s verdure shorn,
My thoughts enshrouded in a solemn mood,
I saw across the road, behind some trees,
Through tangled branches draped with Spanish moss,
A sight that beckoned me to come across
And leave the path where I had walked at ease.
As I went underneath those murky bowers
And passed into a field of some extension,
I felt an eerie sense of apprehension.
To see that lone field dotted, not with flowers,
But with a gray assembly of old headstones
That stood in dark array across the field,
Some tall, some short, from traveler’s gaze concealed
By sylvan sentries, guardians of this “dead zone.”
The ancient markers, rising from the ground,
Once cut with love and planted here with tears,
Looked long forgotten, weathered with the years,
Their names now faded, nowhere to be found.
The setting sun turned redder as it sank,
As dying daylight filtered through the trees
And shadows gathered, and a chilling breeze
Blew through the circling forest dark and dank.
The strange mist swirling in the growing gloom,
The grackles squawking in the evening sky,
The hoot owl hooting from some perch nearby
All seemed to presage some impending doom.
Just then, I felt my neck hairs stand on end,
My blood ran cold, as I became aware
That I was not alone, for standing there
In that same field, was someone—not a friend!—
A figure tall and gaunt and robed in black,
Alone among the graves, not far away;
I had not seen him in the light of day,
But saw him now, though only from the back.
His face unseen, erect, he mutely stood,
Immobile, with a monk’s cowl on his head.
The sight of him filled me with fear and dread,
I thought to leave, but wondered if I could.
For something kept me there, glued to that spot
The truth is, I was paralyzed with fear,
To see that spectral being standing near.
I tried to run, but found that I could not.
He carried in one hand a rough-hewn scythe,
The sight of which filled me with dumbstruck awe,
But when he slowly turned, I clearly saw
A sight that made my heart in horror writhe.
I could not see a face within his hood,
But where a human visage should have been
There was a looming blackness, dark as sin,
Devoid of life and light and all things good.
My heartbeat quickened, then, as now he moved
With somber, steady steps in my direction,
My presence there had not escaped detection,
As his approaching footsteps surely proved.
As he drew near, he seemed prepared to raise
The scythe above his head—so as to strike
My terror-stricken frame—then halted, like
A man struck hard, who staggers in a daze.
For something caught his threatening attention,
And turned his baleful gaze away from me–
A sight that stunned him, caused him injury,
Like some truth dawning on his comprehension.
I turned to see the object of his gaze,
And saw a headstone lit by one pale ray
Of sunlight shining on its face of gray
Through evening mists and wisps of drifting haze.
I looked once more upon the doleful ghost,
And saw his fearful form begin to fade.
He dissipated in the empty glade,
While gazing gravely at that granite post,
That one small headstone, which appeared to fill
His heart with dark dismay and torment, heard
In painful groanings as, without a word,
He vanished slowly, and the field was still.
Drawn by my curious heart, I ventured near
That special stone, to take a closer look;
Engraved there was the image of a book,
A cross, and words unfaded with the years.
They plainly read, “O death, where is your sting?
O, grave, where is your victory?—St. Paul.”
It’s then I understood the grief that all
Such words to vanquished Death must always bring.
For Christ has won Death’s doom by His life’s loss!
Did He not rise, the hope of life to give?
If so, then Grave, what hope have you to live?
What hope have you, O Death, before the cross?
.
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Martin Rizley grew up in Oklahoma and in Texas, and has served in pastoral ministry both in the United States and in Europe. He is currently serving as the pastor of a small evangelical church in the city of Málaga on the southern coast of Spain, where he lives with his wife and daughter. Martin has enjoyed writing and reading poetry as a hobby since his early youth.
This is a remarkable tale told with deftness and aplomb. The beautiful message shines through as “the one pale ray of sunlight” penetrated the gloom and dissolved death both in your gaze and in your mind. FYI: “you” should be “your” in the penultimate verse before victory and St. Paul.
Thanks, Roy, for your feedback, as well as for pointing the typo before the word “victory.”
This is an awesome poem, Martin. Congratulations on crafting a vividly interesting story, with perfect rhymes and beautiful, elegant depictions of places, feelings, and characters. Keep your verses coming!
I am so glad you enjoyed the poem, Rafa. I love writing narrative poems– even as a child, I often made up and told stories to our neighbors and to my classmats at school.– and I am glad that there are people like yourself who enjoy reading such poems!
Martin,
Your poems are always a treat. Congratulations!
Paddy
I enjoyed your encounter with Death narrative poem.
Thanks for the read, Martin.
Ironically, I’m currently reading ‘The Book Thief’, which is narrated by Death!
This is beautiful in its movement from the hair-raising chill of death to hope. Deftly done. Thank you.
The suspenseful way you’ve told the story, and the artistically described, compelling imagery you’ve used to move it along, made it impossible for me to stop reading. In my opinion, the quote from St. Paul in the penultimate verse would have been the most powerful ending, leaving the reader to infer the moral for him or herself. I really enjoyed the poem.
Amen!
Martin, what a story! I can see how it would begin. My brother and sisters and I often enjoyed walking in cemeteries; they are quiet places with interesting monuments, and most suitable for conversation on serious subjects. Frequently there is a person at first unnoticed–someone either grieving or engaged in remembering the past. But I never met a threatening figure. Your story runs exactly as I would want it to, and I find the word “cross” to be the very best for the end. In Catholic tradition, every grave marker should bear a cross, even if it is quite small. My own family tradition prefers the glory cross, with rays of light shining from it. I have made sure that every stone for which I have been responsible has this kind of cross, whatever else the decoration includes. You remind me that I must make sure my survivors do the same for me. Thanks for the impressive poem.
When I read the title I was expecting a poem about bumping into Justin Trudeau. Then, to my great relief, I found it wasn’t as frightening!