When I search internet for "suicide poems" all I can find is some personal web sites of no merit. I'm looking for real ones. Can someone help me?

Do you include non-suicide poems like Dorothy Parker's 'Resume'?

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acid stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

Thank you, IanB

And I have just read the anonymous, sting-in-the-tail one you have quoted in your Satire-ish Poems thread.

There's also this from G.K.Chesterton:

A Ballade of Suicide

THE gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall.
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours -- on the wall --
Are drawing a long breath to shout 'Hurray!'
The strangest whim has seized me . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself today.

Tomorrow is the time I get my pay --
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall --
I see a little cloud all pink and grey --
Perhaps the Rector's mother will not call --
I fancy that I heard from Mr Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way --
I never read the works of Juvenal --
I think I will not hang myself today.

The world will have another washing day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall;
Rationalists are growing rational --
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray,
So secret that the very sky seems small --
I think I will not hang myself today.

Envoi
Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even today your royal head may fall --
I think I will not hang myself today.



Post Edited (05-11-04 09:05)

A suicide poem that I seem to recall being quoted somewhere previously in eMule is 'Richard Cory' by Edwin Arlington Robinson

See: www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1317.html

How about the Theme from Mash:

SUICIDE IS PAINLESS

Through early morning fog I see
Visions of the things to be
The pains that are withheld for me
I realize and I can see...

That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please

The game of life is hard to play
I'm gonna lose it anyway
The losing card I'll someday lay
So this is all I have to say

Suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please

The sword of time will pierce our skins
It doesn't hurt when it begins
But as it works its way on in
The pain grows stronger... watch it grin, but...

Suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please

A brave man once requested me
To answer questions that are key
Is it to be or not to be
And I replied 'oh why ask me?'

And suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please

... and you can do the same thing if you please

Les

Les-

Some people here (never ME) ridicule our youthful poets for their dark/goth/razor point of view. I heard an interview with Robert Altman (directed MAS*H) where he mentioned that his 18 year old son had written the theme song.
I never verified that. Why would he lie?


Jack

Jack, according to the All-Music Guide, my music bible, the song was written by
Johnny Mandel, a jazz musician who worked with Altman on the score of the movie. Here's a website that somewhat verifies this:

[www.allmusic.com] />
Les

You may want to research Sylvia Plath. She's probably the most famous suicide poet, and for good reason. She's wonderful.

-Matt Kovich
[www.InspireThis.com]

Talia -- I sympathize with your problem. Sometimes a net search nets you SO MUCH POETRY (most of it very ... personal) that you can't find much to use.

In such cases, I suggest you go to BARTLEBY.COM and search the "Verse" database.

I just searched it for "suicide" and got 12 hits. These are the first 3 (and you can click on each one to get the whole text):


Suicide, The. Millay, Edna St. Vincent. 1917. Renascence and Other Poems
...Thou hast mocked me, starved me, beat my body sore! And all for a pledge that was not pledged by me, I have kissed thy crust and eaten sparingly That I might eat...

Suicide in the Trenches. Sassoon, Siegfried. 1918. Counter-Attack and Other Poems
...And whistled early with the lark. In winter trenches, cowed and glum, 5 With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him...


Epigram on a Suicide. Burns, Robert. 1909-14. Poems and Songs. The Harvard Classics
...EARTH D up, here lies an imp o hell, Planted by Satan s dibble; Poor silly wretch, he s damned himsel , To save the Lord the trouble....

I'm pretty sure that one of the speakers in SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY is a suicide...

Hamlet's "TO BE OR NOT TO BE" speech is about the pros and cons of suicide (which he calls "self slaughter")...

Milton's description of Samson's last act:
[www.bartleby.com]

Death Wishes

Euthanasia (Voluntary Death)

And when I am at death's dooors
And you've tried about every drug,
Please don't let me linger
Just pull that goddamn plug.

Here's To You

And then when the things are their darkest
Send someone to buy a jug
So that we can toast the end
As Suzy pulls the plug.

I've got a lot of stuff about normal death.
Will submit soon. Keep your eyes peeled.

E.J. Lewis

Hello

suicide poems? well sylvia plath has got a whole lot of them. there is also a personal favourite of mine called I Say I Say I Say by simon armitage. i love that guy. you can find it on this page:


[www.cs.rice.edu] />
there are a whole lot of great poems there. Any poetry lover should go there.

Epitaph on an Unfortunate Lady by Alexander Pope.

Vanathi,

That one is just a little too real and not romantic at all. Thank you.

A romantic suicide poem? Seems to contradict. Still ...


Dream-Pedlary

If there were dreams to sell,
What would you buy?
Some cost a passing bell;
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life's fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rang the bell,
What would you buy?

A cottage lone and still,
With bowers nigh,
Shadowy, my woes to still,
Until I die.
Such pearls from Life's fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down.
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy.

But there were dreams to sell
Ill didst thou buy;
Life is a dream, they tell,
Waking, to die.
Dreaming a dream to prize,
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And if I had the spell
To call the buried well,
Which one should I?

If there are ghosts to raise,
What shall I call,
Out of hell's murky haze,
Heaven's blue pall?
Raise my loved long-lost boy,
To lead me to his joy.--
There are no ghosts to raise;
Out of death lead no ways;
Vain is the call.

Know'st thou not ghosts to sue,
No love thou hast.
Else lie, as I will do,
And breathe thy last.
So out of Life's fresh crown
Fall like a rose-leaf down.
Thus are the ghosts to woo;
Thus are all dreams made true,
Ever to last!
-- Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Thatll be me in three years
suicidal and in tears.
Too bad its too late
to extingiush my fears.
I look at the dishes
and see the knife.
I want it to be
but its not right.
Ide rather hang myself
out my window.
Its so dark am
I dead I dont know.
What if the rope broke
I fell in the snow.
It wouldnt work.
Ide give the evil man a gun
swear to god I would not run.
Then my life would be over
before it had ever begun.Vanathi wrote

                                                **** me<br />
                                          **** the world<br />
                                   I don't know why I keep a hold<br />
                                  All this bullshit all this stuff <br />
                                     I just wonder is it enough<br />
                                 All these troubles all this striff<br />
                                I really wonder is it worth my life<br />
                                **** me, **** the world<br />
                                 I'll no longer keep a hold<br />
                                All these things that I say<br />
                                 I just wonder if i"ll be remembered as yesterday

Am I Alone?
by Megan Hance
I get a funny feeling,it comes from deep inside.I get all mad and angry,wanting to go and hide.My doctor calls it depression,my dad says it's just me.But the thoughts and feelings,no one will ever be able to see.Some say I'm psycho,some say I'm just weird.It's like I'm a different person,and the old me just disappeared.I get really edgy,I want to commit suicide real bad.Then I get a headache,followed by feeling sad.I wish I could get help,I wish it would go away.Maybe if I keep praying real hard,it will some day

How about the survivors of suicide? Check out Virginia Hamiton Adair's "One Ordinary Evening", "The Ruin", "Exit Amor", and "The Year After" in ANTS ON THE MELON.

Mistakes
Emotions churn within me
Like a storm tossed dark grey sea.
Been lying here for hours
Don't know what's happening to me.
Struggling to move
Cannot draw a single breath
Is this the way it all ends
Am I going to my death?
My heart is pounding endlessly
I can hear it in my head
I cannot tell if I'm alive
Or if I'm already dead.
No one tries to help me
Do they even care?
I've made so many bad mistakes
That I now cannot repair.
Images float before my eyes
I can't tell what they are.
By now I know it's much to late
And that I've gone too far.

-Sarah Galyon

Sarah, you should post this on the User Submitted Poetry, forum.

Les

Hugh wrote: "A romantic suicide poem? Seems to contradict."

YES, AND ...
A lot of people have romantic notions about suicide--Romeo & Juliet scenarios, "he/she will regret this when she sees me in my coffin," Barbara Allen, etc. GENERALLY SPEAKING, those people are not suicidal. The emotions surging through them are the essence of the Life Force. They are sad and melodramatic, but they aren't going to kill themselves unless they try some stupid stunt to get attention and die by misadventure. The Life Force may inspire them to write very lively poems about tragic death.

(Again, GENERALLY SPEAKING People who are truly suicidal have NO romantic notions about life OR death. They aren't so much attracted to death as they are simply unwilling to endure any more life. That is NOT a situation that's likely to give rise to poetry! They may reach out by writing about how they feel, for example if they still feel concern for others who may suffer less if they understand a bit more. But they are NOT looking for attention or artistic recognition (that would be a LIFE impulse).

A really good poem about suicidal depression has to be a very rare thing, because it probably needs to be written by someone who has experienced
suicidal depression, lived through it, and is able to contemplate it later on.

=====

And to spare you the trouble of asking: No, I have never felt suicidal myself, but yes, I am close to some people who have. Based on a long agonizing experience with someone "that close" to suicide, I find that a line from the poem by "Vanathi" (above) rings VERY TRUE to me.

That'll be me in three years
suicidal and in tears.

Someone who has been suicidal more than once, and knows it's sure to happen again, can have a strangely fatalistic view of it. Because it doesn't feel like a thing they DO; it feels like a thing that HAPPENS to them. They have a disease, and they've seen people in various stages of the disease, and they know it's gonna get them eventually. The only genuine suicide note I ever received -- WAIT, FIRST I'LL TELL YOU THAT THE WRITER OF THAT NOTE IS STILL ALIVE AND DOING BETTER. Okay, now -- The only genuine suicide note I ever received did NOT say, "I'm going to kill myself if you don't stop me." What it said (but not in these words) was, "It looks like I won't survive this episode of suicidality, so while I'm still lucid I want to thank you for trying to save me in the past." It was like a message from someone on a sinking ship, saying, "I'm going to drown," but NOT saying, "I'm choosing to drown."

Another comparison just crossed my mind: Keats's sonnet, "When I have fears that I may cease to be." In that poem, the prospect of dying young makes him "think / 'til love and fame to nothingness do sink." It's not a threat, it's a fact. And that's probably categorized as Romantic Poem, even though it describes an mental state that's drained of romance.

I have to agree and disagree with you. Yes, romatic ideas of siucide are unrealistic, but Sylvia Plath was a real suicidal poet and it's all over her work. Same with Anne Sexton. They are two of my favorites, not because they killed themselves, but their work, in my opionion, stands out emphatically.

I feel bad in a way, for starting this thread, as it seems to attract and glorify the idea, which is an idea played with by young people far too often. And what do I see recently? Kurt Cobain's picture everywhere!

Yup, strange as it seems, suicide has a "contagious" aspect. An event like Kurt Cobain's suicide can intensify the suicidal feelings of his fans... and relatives of a suicide--who may already be at high risk--are at much higher risk in the months following.

Talia, I really don't know Plath's poetry. So all I can say is that IN GENERAL, the "romance" of suicide only appeals to people who are not truly suicidal, and it's very rare that someone can be truly suicidal and live to write well about it.

It seems to me that the only way of defining someone as 'truly suicidal' is when they've successfully killed themselves. If that is their mindset, then writing about it is probably the least of their concerns, so all you'd get is the suicide note (if such there be) and that's hardly likely to be a literary triumph.

The alternative argument is someone playing with the idea of suicide by exploring its literary possiblities and gradually being seduced into committing it. That's where I'd put Plath.

I know this is controversial, but like most forms of spiritualism, I believe this is far too dangerous to play around with.

Cut and watch the blood flow
Everything gets dark that’s how it goes
Your brain starts to struggle
Then you fade away
You were supposed to die in a later day
Because you’re gone people change
But all we can do is turn the page for a brave new day
The pain you made is what you craved
And it goes the same with me
I wish I could but I cannot stop all this suffering
Maybe it’s me and I put myself in this or I just cannot see
I’ll stop the cutting, and the blood lusting
To love another day

who else is like me and my name

"It seems to me that the only way of defining someone as 'truly suicidal' is when they've successfully killed themselves."

You can define it that way for the sake of discussion, but in practice (I mean medical practice), suicidality is a mental disorder that starts out mild and gets worse. Like many other disorders, it can be treated before it results in death. That's why patients who report severe depression are asked certain questions that help the doctor figure out whether they are at risk of suicide. You can be extremely depressed, with OR without suicidality. Sometimes a person who feels a strong suicidal urge is so SHOCKED and FRIGHTENED by it, that they will go and seek help. And even in the middle of a severe episode of suicidal depression, some people manage to know that they are going through an illness, and force themselves to get help FOR their desire to die, which is not exactly the same as expressing a desire to live.

Quite aside from that--suicide is easier said than done. A few people have jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge and -- to their own astonishment -- lived to tell about it. They woke up in hospitals where they were kept alive until the desire to live returned. Many more people who have been suicidal but were prevented from jumping off things -- or caught! -- or otherwise saved from themselves.

So, even leaving aside the question of "true" intent, there are plenty of people out there qualified to describe what it's like to want to die.

Sorry, I have to add something to this latest "rant."

I agree that this is dangerous territory, but I also think it's dangerous to just say too little about it.

I wouldn't want someone reading this, for example, to feel that they can't call a suicide hot line unless they are "truly" suicidal. I would want them to know that you can call a suicide hot line even if you only feel the slightest twinges of suicidality creeping up on you -- in fact, that's the BEST time to call.

And I wouldn't want someone reading this to dismiss a friend's threats because the friend isn't "serious" about suicide. Not all who threaten go through with it, but nearly everyone who does commit suicide has already gone through various tentative stages (including threats and attempts) before the final act.

GET HELP, WRITE POETRY LATER!

Marian, I wasn't saying that any threat of suicide shouldn't be taken seriously, nor that suicide should be ignored or not spoken about for fear of putting ideas into people's heads. I was trying to say that it should be taken too seriously to be played about with in the name of art. Think of Romeo and Juliet - at 19 you think how wonderful their love is that they couldn't live without each other. At 39 you feel dreadfully sorry for their parents devastated by the sheer waste of life, and furious with the priest and nurse.

I agree with you about the medical disorder bit, but unlike a lot of medical disorders I truly believe you can think yourself into it, especially when you are young. But I think death has a seductiveness that is very dangerous, and any romanticising or encouragement to explore the idea in a romantic way is playing with fire.

Couldn't agree more than with 'Get help (NOW) write poetry later'.

I admit, I always thought R & J were idiots.

pam

Marian2,

I WAY over-reacted to your posting.

I will trust you can imagine why, and forgive me.

We don't seem to disagree about anything.

That's fine, Marian - these things need airing - my arguments aren't always very lucid

ok ok !! lol hopefully this helps
Matthew Kovich wrote:

How good it felt across my skin,
A little line, looks just like pen.
But pen its not, its the sorrow
When i look towards my tomarrow
Not little now, the little line
"don't worry hunny I'll be fine"
The sorrow creeping out of me,
In a pen line, that u can see.

This comes from a truely suicidal person.... me. This was about 5 months ago when i was suicidal, but i got help. For all you sucidal people, do write poems they help u to get out ur feelings, and PLEASE get help before it gets too late, being in the hospital for cutting urself is not very fun, i know from experience.

I have posted this one before, but it seems to be on topic here again:


Speech Therapy: Week Two

in my loneliness, i pressed the muzzle
of a Remington shotgun tight
against my chin, whispered
an Ave Maria, and pulled the trigger.
A wadcutter slug spit from its casing,
rode a mushroom of gas along
the unrifled barrel, met the soft place
just inside my teeth, and plowed through
to the once-white ceiling.
i think of it now as being

something like a powerful sneeze.
i woke to the dull medicinal white
of the hospital, my face packed
like a canker sore. A portion
of the tongue, the hard palate,
cartilage and bone of the nose,
turned to a red-brown mist.
The sinuses blocked and scrambled,

the resonating bones crazed
with vein-like cracks. One ear
blown, numbness in the upper lip,
eyes rolling like loose bearings
in my bored-open head.
i couldn't pronounce my name,
Paul, polluted by the palatal L.
i couldn't pronounce my brother's
name, Thomas, crowned by that T

i so often enunciated in exasperation,
the strange cluck i made that meant
i was angry to be my brother's keeper.
i have to press the stump of my tongue
between my molars to make a choking rasp
that sounds more like a seizure
than a name, but Thomas

in his kindness always responds.
My mother won't settle for seeing me
alive. She comes into my room weeping
and whispering, pray with me. So i do
the best that i can. i still have
the Ave Maria, but the English Hail Mary
defies me. Explanation defies me --

to say i was lonely or even
the obvious i blew my face off
requires sounds my cleft voice
can no longer produce. Michael,
my therapist, shows me new ways
to make liquid sounds, but this
stubborn apparatus -- tongue, lips,

glottis and breath -- falters
into its old ways, manipulating
phantom bits that were atomized
in my bedroom's nagging half-light.
Repeat he says. Again, repeat.
Peggy came yesterday with flowers
and the gift of a manual typewriter,

a heavy black box that that fills
my lap as a reassuring weight.
i marvel at its delicate mechanics,
the keys levered against
the complex matrix of characters,
the hammers swinging forward
and impacting the ribbon to produce

perfect, pronounceable words.
it took me a while to realize
that the upper case i didn't work.
Last night i dreamt i pressed a key
and the whole machine flew apart,
exploding into a black and silver
halo and raining down on the once-white
sheets. i gathered up the shards
of alphabet and casing, and with what
i could recover, i rebuilt my voice.
i woke trying to weep, remembering
that once i felt i could never

be whole, that i had missed some
human lesson, and had no place among
the people. Now i touch my face
and find myself permanently wounded,
blown open by something as trivial
as grief, and the one thing
that can save me -- my voice, guttural,

crippled -- shines through the keys
of a Remington typewriter.
The one thing that can save me
is reined and driven by my mother,
who speaks in time with me and completes
the words i can only begin. Soon,

Michael promises me, i will be able
to speak alone and clearly, and i
will have much to say. For now, i have
only prayer and rote, and the exercise
i repeat, again and slowly repeat:
love, that moves the sun and other stars,
intractable love, my one bright gift.
--Preston Mark Stone

From [www.newtonsbaby.com]

this is ma sorrie poem..i hope u liek it....I’m sorry for what I did
I’m sorry for everything I said
I’m sorry for taking up your time
I’m sorry for this poems rhyme
I’m sorry for everything you held back
I’m sorry I treated you like that
I’m sorry for when I messed up I’m sorry for when I first cut
I’m sorry you lost faith in me
I’m sorry hell, I’m on my knees
well I am really sorry!

copyright...

A gun, a knife, a noose, a ledge
My soul to Hades I will give
For all my life, compelled with strife
Has had no meaning left to live.

A Gun...
Would make my soul depart
Just one bullet does the trick
Point at my head, I'll soon be dead
All feelings over at the click.

A Knife...
Would make the wound so small
The wrist to slit I would not try
The throat seems painful, unsestainful
So a stab, and now I'll die.

A Noose...
I Could hang in my yard
I sign to all the passing foe
This soul withdrawn, flesh on the lawn
I leave you now to hell I go.

A ledge...
I've made my mind up now
I teeter on the stoney ledge
My life is done, it's value none
Goodbye, I'm gone, I've Jumped the edge.

XXX Oxide

................................................ Breathe The Silent Breath Of Hate Swallowed Unto Evils Gates.......... Know That I Reek Of You............. Your Killing Me........................... ..............................................

I've always liked this old poem by Leonard Cohen - a better alternative than suicide -


I didn't kill myself
when things went wrong
I didn't turn
to drugs or teaching
I tried to sleep
and when I couldn't sleep
I learned to write
I learned to write
what might be read
on nights like this
by one like me

I love that one Rikki!

Here's a similar thought (though without LC's provacative reference to "drugs and teaching"). This is something Harvey Fierstein said in an interview:

    "My lover left me and I went to my therapist in tears.
    She said: HARVEY, YOU HAVE THREE CHOICES.
    YOU CAN GO HOME AND KILL YOURSELF.
    YOU CAN GO HOME AND EAT.
    OR YOU CAN GO HOME AND WRITE."

(I won't tell you what he chose, but I will tell you that TORCH SONG TRILOGY was the result.)

====

Oh, no -- here comes another Pause for Pedantry !

I quoted Harvey's therapist accurately there, even though mis-use of the word "choice" is a pet peeve of mine. I know this is a losing battle, but there is honor in defeat, sometimes. So here goes:

A CHOICE is a decision that involves weighing two or more alternatives.

The ALTERNATIVES (two colleges, four kinds of soup, to be or not to be) are not CHOICES. They are alternatives, options, things to pick from, ways you can go, etc.

So, if you want to be all correct about it, here's what you do:


WRONG: "You have two choices: chocolate or vanilla."

CORRECT: "You have two choices to make: what flavor of icecream you want, and whether you want it in a cone or a dish."

WRONG: "I hate those 25-screen theatres. There are too many choices."

CORRECT: "I hate those 25-screen theatre. There are too many movies to choose from."

(Or "to choose among"? I'm not sure about that. Perhaps someone else would like to Pause for Pedantry on that topic.)

I'd say 'to choose between'!

I usually SAY "choose between," but I've wondered whether you can choose BETWEEN more than two alternatives.

Correspondindly, can you find yourself BETWEEN a rock, a hard place, and a coffee shop?

Yes, if I were in the middle of the intersection- perhaps there would be a deli on the fourth corner.

pam

My personal pedantry is the 'less versus fewer' issue.

"The darkness is death - We can speak, but we are not heard. We can scream but they turn their backs. We can run, but we cannot catch them. It is the dream where arms and legs won't work they way they should, and the air is too thick to breathe. Loved ones walk a mile ahead, forgetting to stop as we fall behind. This is the reality of the darkness. We are buried alive inside ourselves. "

You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you shouldnt pick your friends nose

"Even the best of friends cannot attend each other's funeral."
--Kellogg Allbran (THE PROFIT)

The proper office of a friend is to side with you when you are in the wrong. Nearly anybody will side with you when you are in the right.
Mark Twain- Notebook, 1898

"Any mortician can satiate blood clot beyond bride, but it takes a real industrial complex to jersey cow for."
Spamnonymous

See "Certain phrases" thread for more details

look, I don't know what has gone on in your life. but I'm sure thats it's something very serious, and since it hurts or bothers you than it must mean something to you. I'm sorry that you have been treated, hurt or something and only gawd knows that your life will get better.

                                                   Good-Bye<br />

Things are getting worst and i don't know what to say or do.
Death is becoming an option.
But i know I'm leaving alot behind.
There's you and them, but what can i say.
I can't handle it all i just wish.
That some day it will all end.
As i grab the knife and hold it close.
Close to me wrist then my throat.
I slide it slowly and the blood begins to flow.
I'm slowly becoming weak, I can't move.
It's gettign darker, I can't see.
I'm getting cold and I can't breathe.
Never thought it would feel this way.
Bu ti know its for the best, now things will be okay.
I no you will all miss me and you may grieve.
But it's all too late and i can't understand why it ended this way.

      today i feel gery but when i see darkness i feel alone but to my guilt i <br />
     make no sense to my own life that i live daily. so all i want to say is  that i am not myself anymore, no family  no love nor life to complete my self

Here you go, take two of these and call me in the morning:

[www.psycom.net] />
[suicidehotlines.com] />
[suicidehotlines.com] />


Les



Post Edited (05-21-04 15:58)