The Risen Suicide

[heslopian]

The falseness of her Christian grave will haunt
me in Your holy court. My soul was blind.
A daughter does this to a man, and I
was weak, preacher or not, a lost parent
in fields of sadness he could not attack,
because he could not grasp the martyred mind
inside his daughter's head. The truth is nought;
the grave is all the truth she knew and loved.

I found her in the barn and wasn't shocked.
With tender hand I plucked a knife from one
tight fist, then washed her neck with warm water.
I knew her destiny was Hell. I tried
to smuggle her elsewhere. A savage cross
of kindling, thrust in earth with Arthur's zeal,
and her beneath, reserved for Judgement Day
despite that fucking sin (see what I am?
A foul-mouthed cur of wholly sodden mind).
I'm glad her mother's dead. You spared her this
torment, at least. I've earned her pain and more.
What did I think would happen when I laid
my daughter in that grave, her mattress mud?
That cross, that evil cross, so barbarous
and crude, erected on a suicide!

The roods of old were Heaven's doorknobs compared
to those sticks nailed by my tired hands.
I'd dressed her sweetly in her white night clothes.
Why she'd done this was no secret to me
or You. The joy was absent from her eyes,
and even loving grace wasn't enough;
my flock had tried, but man can't force a heart.
I beg You for forgiveness when studying
my case. I did not mean to mock Your ways.
That grave I made was vain and foolish hope.

She rose from it like lava spurting through
brimstone, her eyes static and mouth with worms
bedewed. I screamed then wept in martyred tones.
I could not save the soul she killed herself.

Now each night she pelts my windows with mud,
walking blind across the woods, not ghost or corpse
but dumb machine, symbol of my crimes,
reminder of hypocrisy. Her eyes
are yoke-less eggs, her skin a rotting steak.
She never speaks, but serves the wrath of You.

[Brownlie]

The falseness of her Christian grave will haunt
me in Your holy court. My soul was blind. The first sentence makes me think of judgement. How was your soul blind?
A daughter does this to a man, and I
was weak, preacher or not, a lost parent
in fields of sadness he could not attack, Fields of sadness seems a bit abstract
because he could not grasp the martyred mind
inside his daughter's head. The truth is nought;
the grave is all the truth she knew and loved.

I found her in the barn and wasn't shocked. Ok, I like that you've put in a story here.
With tender hand I plucked a knife from one
tight fist, then washed her neck with warm water. Good detail and action.
I knew her destiny was Hell. I tried
to smuggle her elsewhere. A savage cross
of kindling, thrust in earth with Arthur's zeal,
and her beneath, reserved for Judgement Day
despite that fucking sin (see what I am?
A foul-mouthed cur of wholly sodden mind). Wholly a pun?
I'm glad her mother's dead. You spared her this I like the honesty of the narrator here.
torment, at least. I've earned her pain and more.
What did I think would happen when I laid
my daughter in that grave, her mattress mud?
That cross, that evil cross, so barbarous
and crude, erected on a suicide! I would keep to a clear story.

The roods of old were Heaven's doorknobs compared
to those sticks nailed by my tired hands.
I'd dressed her sweetly in her white night clothes.
Why she'd done this was no secret to me
or You. The joy was absent from her eyes,
and even loving grace wasn't enough;
my flock had tried, but man can't force a heart.
I beg You for forgiveness when studying
my case. I did not mean to mock Your ways.
That grave I made was vain and foolish hope.

She rose from it like lava spurting through
brimstone, her eyes static and mouth with worms
bedewed. I screamed then wept in martyred tones.
I could not save the soul she killed herself.

Now each night she pelts my windows with mud,
walking blind across the woods, not ghost or corpse
but dumb machine, symbol of my crimes,
reminder of hypocrisy. Her eyes
are yoke-less eggs, her skin a rotting steak.
She never speaks, but serves the wrath of You.

I feel this poem is strongest when the story is clear. There is an injustice that suicide should lead to damnation, yet this damnation is decreed by divine law. What were your intentions here?

[heslopian]

Thank you for your kind and thoughtful feedback, Brownlie My intention was simply to tell a horror story about a man whose daughter commits suicide, so he buries her in a Christian grave even though he knows that she sinned by her death, and as a result the wrath of God resurrects her corpse to torment him. Supposedly; it could be all in his head.

[cidermaid]

Hi Heslopian, I thought you told your story really well and that the pain of the daughter's condition was made all the more real and poignant because you placed the father as a vicar / priest (thereby giving credance to being able to access the consecrated land for the burial without permission). I thought you carried the symbols and story of his faith stuggles well throughout.
It was an enjoyable read as well as being thought provoking. It has a raw edge of festering grief and a sense of failure that i would imagine would never leave a parent of a child who commits suiside.
A few comments on my read below.

The falseness of her Christian grave will haunt Intriging first line - opens lot of why questions to be answered.
me in Your holy court. My soul was blind. The blind soul was a bit predictable verging on cliche. perhaps work with the blinded line a bit more.
A daughter does this to a man, and I
was weak, preacher or not, a lost parent (not sure I need lost parent - but sort of fills a well worn idea of children not comming with instruction manuels - which they obviously should do )
in fields of sadness he could not attack,
because he could not grasp the martyred mind
inside his daughter's head. The truth is nought;
the grave is all the truth she knew and loved. Loved the story and the humanness of his predicament. Tells me a lot without giving the whole story away. all good for me.

I found her in the barn and wasn't shocked. This line feel a bit over wordy, perhaps don't need to be told it was in the barn.
With tender hand I plucked a knife from one
tight fist, then washed her neck with warm water. Good detailing - vivd.
I knew her destiny was Hell. I tried The sadness of his situation and the weight of his knowledge as a priest comes through. Nicely carried throughout.
to smuggle her elsewhere. A savage cross
of kindling, thrust in earth with Arthur's zeal, I didn't get the referance to Arthur's zeal, made me think of pulling things up, as in a sword from a stone, not planting a cross on a grave - understood the kindling cross.
and her beneath, reserved for Judgement Day
despite that fucking sin (see what I am?
A foul-mouthed cur of wholly sodden mind).
I'm glad her mother's dead. You spared her this
torment, at least. I've earned her pain and more.
What did I think would happen when I laid
my daughter in that grave, her mattress mud?
That cross, that evil cross, so barbarous
and crude, erected on a suicide! Again nice touch of human frustration and pain at the percieved injustices of life. I like that you gave your man such a strong voice.

The roods of old were Heaven's doorknobs compared Not entirly sure what you wanted to convey by roods. I read "roods" as the closed and restrictive elements of faith.
to those sticks nailed by my tired hands.
I'd dressed her sweetly in her white night clothes. Read a bride image here. (symbolic for a believer's faith and purity before God), but also the tenderness of her father in his efforts to make her an acceptable offering for the grave - this really touched my emotions
Why she'd done this was no secret to me
or You. The joy was absent from her eyes,
and even loving grace wasn't enough;
my flock had tried, but man can't force a heart.
I beg You for forgiveness when studying
my case. I did not mean to mock Your ways.
That grave I made was vain and foolish hope. Again the voice of pain and regret. Well done on the balance of each of the stanza's - each stanza has a sense on allowing the man to express a different aspect of his grief.

She rose from it like lava spurting through
brimstone, her eyes static and mouth with worms
bedewed. I screamed then wept in martyred tones.
I could not save the soul she killed herself.

Now each night she pelts my windows with mud, Not sure this line is in keeping or adds much to the read - feels a bit overdone.
walking blind across the woods, not ghost or corpse
but dumb machine, symbol of my crimes,
reminder of hypocrisy. Her eyes
are yoke-less eggs, her skin a rotting steak. Also not sure I need a second referance to the look of her eyes
She never speaks, but serves the wrath of You. The haunting is well told, perhaps a bit too long winded.

Only other comment not sure need to be told it is a suicide in the title - could just be the risen perhaps.
Thanks for the read.
AJ.

[heslopian]

A rood is a large cross, typically found in medieval-style churches on a rood screen seperating the choir from the regular people's pews - http://www.crsbi.ac.uk/resources/glossar..._36448.jpg The literal aspect of a large cross is all I wanted to convey. Thank you for your kind, honest and very in-depth feedback, cidermaid; I read it all and greatly appreciate it