A gentle death (was delivering news), Rev 1

[aschueler]

From a full stop I begin
my walk down the sun bright hallway
lined by her family.
Silent sentries, their eyes averted, faces down;
they do not acknowledge me.

In the middle of the hall 
plays the youngest of them all --
Her fifth generation --
Skip, laugh, chase,
yards from where she lay dying.

Feeling small, awkward 
I pass on to her room.

More are here, much older,
packed tight, embers 
surrounding her with their warmth.

I sit by her husband 
already seated, 
his gaze uncertain yet fixed,
black hand tight on his cane.

I hold her hand, reflect on her
over ninety years;
of certain pain, injustice in the rural south,
how she has refused to define herself,
or her family, on those terms.

I say to her what I must.  
She already knows, but I have to admit 
just as much. I cannot mend any more.

She becomes still.  Her hand in mine yet, 
I tell her husband 
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"

I give him what I can, but
I must go.

It has rained, and warm
dappled sunlight filters
through the paneled window
onto the children still playing.

Her sentries turn to comfort me as I leave.







Original is below



Silent sentries flank the long hall,
faces averted, their disposition clouded.
In the middle plays the youngest
of her family, fourth maybe the fifth generation;
I am unsure.

They laugh, skip, dance even mere yards
from where she lay dying.

Small, awkward but undaunted as
I cannot hold the inexorable; 
I cross to her room.

Even more are here, older,
packed tight, embers that surround
her with their warmth
as hers lessens.

Her husband sits by her head,
his gaze fixed, uncertain, hand
tight on his cane.
Beside is the empty chair
for me.

Her eyes of nearly ninety years
soften as I hold her black hand in my white hand,
and anchor myself.  Relief comes as I hold
her and her husband in my mind, 
all others receding dimly.  I disclose
what she already knows.
They all do.

Sooner than expected 
she becomes still.  Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"

I reach inside but find
nothing
except that which does not grow back,
leaving me less than I was. 
Forward I must grow -- as forward I turn to go.

The children continue to play 
in the warm dappled sunlight
filtered through the paneled window.

She has her victory.  Her calm
inscrutable wisdom not lost
but manifest in all those who 
surround, accept and forgive 
and comfort even me.

[quick note:  this was brought to mind by an earlier poem (that seems to have disappeared) that was about giving negative news.]

[Tiger the Lion]

Hey asc, just a few notes on my first couple of reads...

Silent sentries flank the long hall,
faces averted, their disposition clouded.
In the middle plays the youngest
of her family, fourth maybe the fifth generation;
I am unsure. I like the opening stanza but only upon subsequent reads. "her" feels vague even with the generations explanation that follows - just my ear 

They laugh, skip, dance even mere yards typo?
from where she lay dying.

Small, awkward but undaunted as would prefer and rather than the comma between small and awkward
I cannot hold the inexorable; 
I cross to her room.

Even more are here, older, don't like "even" as a line start
packed tight, embers that surround
her with their warmth
as hers lessens. her's

Her husband sits by her head, "head" sounds blunt. "Side" maybe?
his gaze fixed, uncertain, hand
tight on his cane.
Beside is the empty chair
for me.

Her eyes of nearly ninety years
soften as I hold her black hand in my white hand,
and anchor myself.  Relief comes as I hold
her and her husband in my mind, 
all others receding dimly.  I disclose
what she already knows.
They all do. for me the piece gets too philosophical from here on.

Sooner than expected 
she becomes still.  Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"

I reach inside but find
nothing
except that which does not grow back,
leaving me less than I was. 
Forward I must grow -- as forward I turn to go.

The children continue to play 
in the warm dappled sunlight
filtered through the paneled window.

She has her victory.  Her calm
inscrutable wisdom not lost
but manifest in all those who 
surround, accept and forgive 
and comfort even me.

[quick note:  this was brought to mind by an earlier poem (that seems to have disappeared) that was about giving negative news.]

I think it is a common theme and could be pared down for impact.

Paul

[mlund]

Silent sentries flank the long hall,
faces averted, their disposition clouded.
In the middle plays the youngest
of her family, fourth maybe the fifth generation;This line just seems very out of of place. Maybe omit the last two lines of this stanza and join the first three lines with the next stanza
I am unsure.

The laugh, skip, dance even mere yards
from where she lay dying.

Small, awkward but undaunted as
I cannot hold the inexorable; 
I cross to her room.

Even more are here, older,
packed tight, embers that surround
her with their warmth
as hers lessens.I like this idea, that they are keeping her warm and safe, as she must be very scared

Her husband sits by her head,
his gaze fixed, uncertain, hand
tight on his cane.
Beside is the empty chair
for me.

Her eyes of nearly ninety years
soften as I hold her black hand in my white hand,I again am not sure how this line fits in with the poem as a whole. Maybe talk about holding her cold hand in your warm hand? The differentiation between races seems odd at this moment
and anchor myself.  Relief comes as I hold
her and her husband in my mind, 
all others receding dimly.  I disclose
what she already knows.
They all do.

Sooner than expected 
she becomes still.  Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"

I reach inside but find
nothing
except that which does not grow back,
leaving me less than I was. 
Forward I must grow -- as forward I turn to go.

The children continue to play 
in the warm dappled sunlight I really like the word "dappled" but maybe not in this context
filtered through the paneled window.

She has her victory.  Her calm
inscrutable wisdom not lost
but manifest in all those who 
surround, accept and forgive 
and comfort even me.
There does not seem to be much of an ending to the poem as a whole. It is very abrupt and does not sum up what I feel you are trying to get at

[quick note:  this was brought to mind by an earlier poem (that seems to have disappeared) that was about giving negative news.]

[aschueler]

Thanks for the feedback.  This does need paring down, will word on that.  Yes, it's philosophical.  No apologies for that.  Perhaps if I explain more there might be advice on how I can get this out better.

The scene is real, me as younger doctor.  This lady had been a patient of mine some time, and she was in the hospital essentially near death, and I was to tell her there was nothing more we could reasonably offer her.  She was a very dear lady I cared about.  

There are two discrete areas of tension, one was race.  This was a lady of nearly 90 who was born and raised in the rural south, with all the good things that came from that, but trusted me a young white male doctor.  if that doesn't fit, I will drop it.  

Next, her family actually comforted me as it made me about as sad as she was a wonderful lady, instead of the other way around, despite her certain history with the rural south, I was not blames but welcomed.

[Achebe]

Hi - i think the poem could do with fewer words in its second draft. 
Overall, I enjoyed reading it. Thanks for posting.

Silent sentries flank the long hall,
faces averted, their disposition clouded. 'faces averted' is a tired expression. 'disposition clouded' is a vague, ineffective one. the first line is enough.
In the middle plays the youngest
of her family, fourth maybe the fifth generation; the uncertainty and '4th / 5th' is unnecessary and uninteresting information.
I am unsure.

They laugh, skip, dance even mere yards who are 'they'? the sentries? aren't they silent? I would delete these two lines altogether
from where she lay dying.

Small, awkward but undaunted as 
I cannot hold the inexorable;  too many abstract adjectives
I cross to her room. I'd suggest a colon here, immediately followed by the next line

Even more are here, older,
packed tight, embers that surround
her with their warmth
as hers lessens. the three lines above are wonderful. the third line implies the fourth: better not to make it obvious.

Her husband sits by her head,
his gaze fixed, uncertain, hand  I can't reconcile a 'fixed' with an 'uncertain' gaze. Not needed, IMO.
tight on his cane.    underlined - I loved this
Beside is the empty chair
for me.

Her eyes of nearly ninety years  unnecessary, wordy ambiguity
soften as I hold her black hand in my white hand,
and anchor myself.  Relief comes as I hold
her and her husband in my mind, doesn't sound good, but can't think of an alternate right now
all others receding dimly.  I disclose
what she already knows.
They all do. a bit anticlimactic, and a waste of a line

Sooner than expected 
she becomes still.  Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?" nice strophe

I reach inside but find
nothing
except that which does not grow back,
leaving me less than I was. 
Forward I must grow -- as forward I turn to go.

The children continue to play 
in the warm dappled sunlight
filtered through the paneled window.

She has her victory.  Her calm
inscrutable wisdom not lost
but manifest in all those who 
surround, accept and forgive 
and comfort even me.               I don't think you need to add in this 'moral of the story'. weakens the effect of the poem. 'calm inscrutable wisdom' is pretty terrible.

[quick note:  this was brought to mind by an earlier poem (that seems to have disappeared) that was about giving negative news.]

[ellajam]

A peaceful death, I guess they exist other than in movies, maybe. Strong images throughout. I ran into a few technical difficulties but the whole was strong.

Silent sentries flank the long hall,
faces averted, their disposition clouded.There's probably a better way to say this, what their faces are averted from is unclear, the youngest below? the N? the dying? Disposition clouded is just wordy, I'd cut or replace it.
In the middle plays the youngest
of her family, fourth maybe the fifth generation;
I am unsure. Good way of separating the N from the crowd.

They laugh, skip, dance even mere yards
from where she lay dying.
I too am unsure. The first few reads were false starts for me because I kept getting an old family photo. The opening of silence followed by a child playing reconciled itself that way. I read "in the middle" as in the middle of the family, if you mean the middle of a hallway you might consider "down the middle" or center. Added confusion by the tense change:The youngest of her family/they laugh...

I eventually got it and like it, I just think you could clarify.

Small, awkward but undaunted as
I cannot hold the inexorable; 
I cross to her room.
I like this as is, it brings the focus of the N clearly.

Even more are here, older,
packed tight, embers that surround
her with their warmth
as hers lessens.
I might like a break on tight as well as surround, maybe a better word than lessens. Strong image.

Her husband sits by her head,
his gaze fixed, uncertain, hand
tight on his cane.
Beside is the empty chair
for me.
Strong three lines, I might break on uncertain. Then the unclear "beside". Beside the husband or beside the dying? This matters to me. Is the N comforting the living or the (almost) dead? I guess it's beside the dying because the N is holding her hand below but it would be easy to clarify. The saved chair indicates a spiritual leader to me, a doctor would stand and those are the two non-family members I can picture in this scene.

Her eyes of nearly ninety years
soften as I hold her black hand in my white hand, I found this disruptive. I know race is in everything to some but I don't see how it applies to the rest of the poem, I'd find some other way of saying the N isn't family, maybe you already have in the walk down the hall.
and anchor myself.  Relief comes as I hold I anchor myself or her eyes anchor me. Who's relief?
her and her husband in my mind, 
all others receding dimly.  I disclose
what she already knows.
They all do.

Sooner than expected Sooner than the N expected? They're all there to see her off, the poem claims the N bothered to "disclose" the obvious, is there a surprise here?
she becomes still.  Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"
Love the "he asks no one".

I reach inside but find
nothing
except that which does not grow back,
leaving me less than I was. 
Forward I must grow -- as forward I turn to go. Meh on this line.

The children continue to play 
in the warm dappled sunlight
filtered through the paneled window.
I like returning to the children.

She has her victory.  Her calm
inscrutable wisdom not lost
but manifest in all those who 
surround, accept and forgive 
and comfort even me. Meh on all this, maybe you can find some interesting way to say this, maybe in a prediction for the kids, maybe not. .

[quick note:  this was brought to mind by an earlier poem (that seems to have disappeared) that was about giving negative news.]

Sooo, maybe I am too nitpicky expecting the scene to ring true to my own experience but I hope my notes might give you a hint at what you might tighten up. There are spots where you have done what I often do in early drafts: tell the reader my thoughts on why I am presenting these images. Then I am left to edit out the abstract and sharpen the rest so that the reader can go where I want them to go without my speechifying. Good luck with that, for me it's difficult but worthwhile. Thanks for the read. I really do love the opening image I ended up with with, it just took me a while.

Oh, and while delivering news may have sparked the poem, for me that's not what the poem is is really about, and even if it is I'd prefer a better title.

[Tiger the Lion]

[quote='aschueler' pid='205162' dateline='1455672067']
Thanks for the feedback.  This does need paring down, will word on that.  Yes, it's philosophical.  No apologies for that.  Perhaps if I explain more there might be advice on how I can get this out better.



There are two discrete areas of tension, one was race.  This was a lady of nearly 90 who was born and raised in the rural south, with all the good things that came from that, but trusted me a young white male doctor.  if that doesn't fit, I will drop it.  


This is interesting. But I did not read it in the poem.

Paul

[billy]

in general i found it to be overly wordy [achebe] pointed out most of the weak or unnecessary lines. so i will just go with them on that point in order to bolster it. the poem starts off with a reasonable line, some good sounds with the first two words. after that the wordiness comes into play. as the poet you have license to be more definite. choose 4th or 5th. that way you don't have to have the weaker [i'm unsure] line.

use more imagery, use some simile or/and metaphor, just a couple of either or both will lift the poem. what was her old black skin like?

Silent sentries flank the long hall,
faces averted, their disposition clouded.
In the middle plays the youngest
of her family, fourth maybe the fifth generation;
I am unsure.

They laugh, skip, dance even mere yards
from where she lay dying. very wordy couplet

Small, awkward but undaunted as
I cannot hold the inexorable; make each line mean something to the reader.
I cross to her room.

Even more are here, older,
packed tight, embers that surround
her with their warmth
as hers lessens.

Her husband sits by her head,
his gaze fixed, uncertain, hand
tight on his cane.
Beside is the empty chair
for me.

Her eyes of nearly ninety years
soften as I hold her black hand in my white hand, is it a black hand from age or is that the one reference of ethnicity? if so be stronger in showing it, [the eyes of the [insert a good descriptive word here]old black woman]
and anchor myself.  Relief comes as I hold
her and her husband in my mind, 
all others receding dimly.  I disclose
what she already knows.
They all do.

Sooner than expected 
she becomes still.  Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"

I reach inside but find
nothing
except that which does not grow back,
leaving me less than I was. 
Forward I must grow -- as forward I turn to go.

The children continue to play 
in the warm dappled sunlight
filtered through the paneled window.

She has her victory.  Her calm
inscrutable wisdom not lost
but manifest in all those who 
surround, accept and forgive 
and comfort even me.

[quick note:  this was brought to mind by an earlier poem (that seems to have disappeared) that was about giving negative news.]

[aschueler]

Again, thanks for the help.  I struggled with a lot of the areas you guys are pointing out.  

Achebe:  You made me laugh with "'calm inscrutable wisdom' is pretty terrible"... and maybe its best to drop what you call the moral.  Thanks for pointing out better word choices.

Ellajam:  I am really bad at titles.  I think generally because my ideas start in the middle of the poem and I have to figure out the beginning and end.  However, your phrase "a peaceful death" might be good.  Will clarify the beginning, it's tough of course with few words to describe the hallway I walked through.  She had a a HUGE family lining the entire hospital hallway and the little kids playing in the middle of it all was ... nice but different.  By sooner than expected I mean I didn't expect her to die RIGHT THEN.  Didn't catch the anchor myself at first, I think I mean to put "I" in there.

Billy et al: one thing I was trying to get across and I think I can still work is how awkward and unsure not just I was but everyone.  Death is tough anymore, we don't have clear scripts what to do.  I was myself feeliing "unsure", so was everyone.

The end sucks.  I will leave that off.  

Many thanks for all the help, will put up another version soon but free time has been lacking lately.

[REW]

Silent sentries flank the long hall, (your use of the word sentries here threw me off as I started picturing a military scene.  I suggest keeping it simple here...her folks, her kin, or etc.)
faces averted, their disposition clouded.
In the middle plays the youngest
of her family, fourth maybe the fifth generation;
I am unsure.

They laugh, skip, dance even mere yards
from where she lay dying.

Small, awkward but undaunted as. (a little too wordy here of details)
I cannot hold the inexorable; 
I cross to her room.

Even more are here, older, (I like the warm embers.  I do not think you need as hers lessens as that is already implied).
packed tight, embers that surround
her with their warmth
as hers lessens.

Her husband sits by her head,
his gaze fixed, uncertain, hand
tight on his cane.
Beside is the empty chair
for me.

Her eyes of nearly ninety years
soften as I hold her black hand in my white hand,
and anchor myself.  Relief comes as I hold
her and her husband in my mind, 
all others receding dimly.  I disclose
what she already knows.
They all do.

Sooner than expected 
she becomes still.  Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"

I reach inside but find
nothing
except that which does not grow back, (I really like those lines about losing a part that doesn't grow back).
leaving me less than I was. 
Forward I must grow -- as forward I turn to go.

The children continue to play (I think this stanza could go to be replaced with more significant details that you mentioned in the backstory.)
in the warm dappled sunlight
filtered through the paneled window.

She has her victory.  Her calm  (This last stanza here doesn't really do it for me.  I am interested in the backstory you provided about being her doctor and the narrator young and white and she old school black from different times.  I suggest adding that here/reworking.)
inscrutable wisdom not lost
but manifest in all those who 
surround, accept and forgive 
and comfort even me.

[quick note:  this was brought to mind by an earlier poem (that seems to have disappeared) that was about giving negative news.]

To me a woman nearly 90 passing away is not a sad thing really as that is a long life, but you seem sad about this.  I imagine the significance is that she, an old and wizened black woman who survived the racist south, trusted a young white doctor. I suppose that doctor wanted to do more because of this (but that wasn't very realistic as medicine can only do so much for a person nearly 90).  I as a reader am interested in having more of that in the poem.  It seems as if this was a very important moment that I think could be played up more.  But that is my view.  I like the subject very much and there are some beautiful moments in this...

[aschueler]

O

Silent sentries flank the long hall, (your use of the word sentries here threw me off as I started picturing a military scene.  I suggest keeping it simple here...her folks, her kin, or etc.)
faces averted, their disposition clouded.
In the middle plays the youngest
of her family, fourth maybe the fifth generation;
I am unsure.

They laugh, skip, dance even mere yards
from where she lay dying.

Small, awkward but undaunted as. (a little too wordy here of details)
I cannot hold the inexorable; 
I cross to her room.

Even more are here, older, (I like the warm embers.  I do not think you need as hers lessens as that is already implied).
packed tight, embers that surround
her with their warmth
as hers lessens.

Her husband sits by her head,
his gaze fixed, uncertain, hand
tight on his cane.
Beside is the empty chair
for me.

Her eyes of nearly ninety years
soften as I hold her black hand in my white hand,
and anchor myself.  Relief comes as I hold
her and her husband in my mind, 
all others receding dimly.  I disclose
what she already knows.
They all do.

Sooner than expected 
she becomes still.  Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"

I reach inside but find
nothing
except that which does not grow back, (I really like those lines about losing a part that doesn't grow back).
leaving me less than I was. 
Forward I must grow -- as forward I turn to go.

The children continue to play (I think this stanza could go to be replaced with more significant details that you mentioned in the backstory.)
in the warm dappled sunlight
filtered through the paneled window.

She has her victory.  Her calm  (This last stanza here doesn't really do it for me.  I am interested in the backstory you provided about being her doctor and the narrator young and white and she old school black from different times.  I suggest adding that here/reworking.)
inscrutable wisdom not lost
but manifest in all those who 
surround, accept and forgive 
and comfort even me.

[quick note:  this was brought to mind by an earlier poem (that seems to have disappeared) that was about giving negative news.]

To me a woman nearly 90 passing away is not a sad thing really as that is a long life, but you seem sad about this.  I imagine the significance is that she, an old and wizened black woman who survived the racist south, trusted a young white doctor. I suppose that doctor wanted to do more because of this (but that wasn't very realistic as medicine can only do so much for a person nearly 90).  I as a reader am interested in having more of that in the poem.  It seems as if this was a very important moment that I think could be played up more.  But that is my view.  I like the subject very much and there are some beautiful moments in this...

Thanks for the input.    I think some of the nuances would only be caught by docs who have had to walk into a room full of family to deliver what seems obvious... you feel quite vulnerable, you have no idea how people are going to react.  I was very much taken aback by how well her family accepted everything and made me feel better.  Yes, I was saddened...   Hard to explain.  I am glad you liked the self sacrifice part.  It's hard to explain;  that's likely another subject for a bad poem later

I grew up after Jiim Crow laws, but after learning about them I was shocked to think my parents' generation would have known them as the norm had they been reared in the South here.  However, the more I struggle with how to put race in here, the more I think it may not belong.  Maybe it is just my issue after all, as they didn't care.

[ellajam]

Thanks for the input. I think some of the nuances would only be caught by docs who have had to walk into a room full of family to deliver what seems obvious... you feel quite vulnerable, you have no idea how people are going to react. I was very much taken aback by how well her family accepted everything and made me feel better. Yes, I was saddened... Hard to explain. I am glad you liked the self sacrifice part. It's hard to explain; that's likely another subject for a bad poem later

I don't think a reader has to be a doc to pick up on the nuances, often it is the doc who has not picked up the nuances of the family. When death comes in a timely manner it can only be those in denial that raise a fuss at the news, IME that is often only one or two of the bunch at most.

I grew up after Jiim Crow laws, but after learning about them I was shocked to think my parents' generation would have known them as the norm had they been reared in the South here. However, the more I struggle with how to put race in here, the more I think it may not belong. Maybe it is just my issue after all, as they didn't care.

The more a struggle with it the more I think it may somehow belong. The dying seem to often wait for something, someone to come, more often someone to leave the room. IMO it may be a change in the energy of the room, the connections they feel or don't, that allows them to let go. Maybe that young white boy holding her hand did it for her.

So, your poem continues to interest me. Think hard on your edit, about your intentions and the many comments. Good luck with it.

Silent sentries flank the long hall,
faces averted, their disposition clouded.
In the middle plays the youngest
of her family, fourth maybe the fifth generation;
I am unsure.

They laugh, skip, dance even mere yards
from where she lay dying.

Small, awkward but undaunted as
I cannot hold the inexorable; 
I cross to her room.

Even more are here, older,
packed tight, embers that surround
her with their warmth
as hers lessens.

Her husband sits by her head,
his gaze fixed, uncertain, hand
tight on his cane.
Beside is the empty chair
for me.

Her eyes of nearly ninety years
soften as I hold her black hand in my white hand,
and anchor myself.  Relief comes as I hold
her and her husband in my mind, 
all others receding dimly.  I disclose
what she already knows.
They all do.

Sooner than expected 
she becomes still.  Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"

I reach inside but find
nothing
except that which does not grow back,
leaving me less than I was. 
Forward I must grow -- as forward I turn to go.

The children continue to play 
in the warm dappled sunlight
filtered through the paneled window.

She has her victory.  Her calm
inscrutable wisdom not lost
but manifest in all those who 
surround, accept and forgive 
and comfort even me.

[quick note:  this was brought to mind by an earlier poem (that seems to have disappeared) that was about giving negative news.]

[aschueler]

Thanks for the encouragement, pls see if I improved this.

[Caleb Murdock]

From a full stop I begin
my walk down the sun bright hallway
lined by her family.
Silent sentries, their eyes averted, faces down; -- I'm interpreting this to mean pictures of the family in the hall, or are these actual people?  If they are pictures, their faces wouldn't be down
they do not acknowledge me.

In the middle of the hall 
plays the youngest of them all -- -- the youngest "sentry"?
Her fifth generation --
Skip, laugh, chase,
yards from where she lay dying. -- here you switch tense from present to past

Feeling small, awkward 
I pass on to her room.

More are here, much older,
packed tight, embers -- embers, nice
surrounding her with their warmth.

I sit by her husband 
already seated, 
his gaze uncertain yet fixed,
black hand tight on his cane. -- you're trying to tell us that these are African-Americans, but I'm not sure that sticking "black" in this spot is the best way

I hold her hand, reflect on her
over ninety years;
of certain pain, injustice in the rural south,
how she has refused to define herself,
or her family, on those terms.

I say to her what I must.  
She already knows, but I have to admit 
just as much. I cannot mend any more. -- I've witnessed only a couple deaths, and in both cases the people were not lucid enough to talk to

She becomes still.  Her hand in mine yet, 
I tell her husband 
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"

I give him what I can, but
I must go.

It has rained, and warm
dappled sunlight filters
through the paneled window
onto the children still playing.

Her sentries turn to comfort me as I leave. -- by this I guess you mean the pictures -- but the speaker sounds detached, like an outsider, so why does he need comforting?

I'm all in favor of lengthy poems if they create a mood.  I think you succeed in this one.  What I expected, though, was more emotion in the poem.  Someone pointed out that you took a philosophical turn, and you indicated that that was what you wanted.  (The words I would use are "emotionally detached".)  But I don't see a philosophical conclusion.  Perhaps there's a little bit of a philosophical conclusion in the final strophe, but not much.  So the poem feels a little scattered to me -- a bit sad, a bit moody, a bit emotional, a bit philosophical.  I'm not going to suggest that you cut it down.  Rather, I think you need to decide precisely what you are trying to say, and then make sure that every word in the poem points to or supports that message.

The speaker in the poem seems to be an outsider, which is perhaps why the voice is so detached.  I find myself wondering who the speaker is -- a doctor?  a lawyer?  a family friend?  a civil-rights worker?  If the speaker is an outsider, why is he the one holding the woman's hand when she dies?  Indeed, it seems strange that he arrives just at the crucial moment and immediately assumes the role of chief comforter.  Also, what news is the speaker delivering?  I'm confused!

[aschueler]

Caleb, thanks for your thoughts there. I usually get grammar but lay lie lies etc catches everyone sometimes.

I am a family doctor, it's from a real scene. Will work through it once more to clarify. And surprisingly, people are often lucid.

The emotion is there, it's just too "matter of fact".

[Caleb Murdock]

Interesting. I thought that a family doctor might be extremely detached, having seen death so often. But because you see death a lot doesn't mean you must be totally insensitive.