The dull, dark geen-gray fingernail presses down on cold linen,
Attached to a rigid, outstretched middle digit locked in its rigidity,
As if the blackened hand is silently sending a signal of solidarity
With the dead,
A final act of defiance set in rigor mortis motion
Against a world hellbent on death.
Were we meant to atrophy in defiance of death?
In a dark, shadowed, sunken socket, the pale of the eye
Is a slim fingernail clipping, vacant of life or connection,
The brown iris rolled up and away underneath half-moon lids.
Eybrow evinces ending resignation over a green-pallored brow,
A cliff from which the only remaining growth flows down upon the pall.
The necrotic nose an aquline mountain peak, a secluded summit
Ascending over the soul’s enigmatic exit, opened—
Extinguished—
Now an abyss into a bodily display of death’s dominance.
The hair-clad chin, a wall of obscurity from death’s design.
Sloping down to the nape,
Stiff shoulders segregate the neck from the depressed chest,
The pale gray expanse ascending up to the ribs before
Descending to the torso’s total and terrible extended terrain,
The navel a canyon wound
Reminiscent of the love and nurturing that gave birth
To the now, macabre, mutilated and motionless
Man.
The putrified-pallor of the board-like body, boarded up
Within a wood frame; he lies on a palled slab of stone,
Lacking life’s hue—except the vulva-visaged wounds,
Where human cruelty met helpless human flesh—
The mysteriously murdered man suddenly becomes familiar,
His murder no mystery at all.
For here, lying on this appalling pall, on a stone slab,
Framed within a tomb
The Christ
Though worshipped as
God,
A dead man stiff as if artificially aborted from the womb
By a species dying to mercilessly mangle its own,
This boxed tomb a king’s throne,
Rotting flesh over bruised bone while lying stiff—alone—
A bed fit for a mocked king.
Who will join in on this kind of hymn
Devoid of the pomp and pomposity that Easter brings,
Where one must face the cold, stark
Truth
In the chasm of a rock-hewn tomb?
Not even God could avoid the dastardly dell of death.
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
-
Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Offline) - Published: March 11th, 2025 06:35
- Comment from author about the poem: An ekphrasis of the 1873 painting “The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb” by Hans Holbein the Younger, which is currently held in the Kunstmuseum Basel, Switzerland.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Poetic Licence, Cassie58
Offline)
Comments6
Vivid and graphic this poem appears so literal and dark, Cold as a corpse and dark as rotting flesh in metaphor it sings out a dirge of lacrimosa for all living to hear. The last lines are masterful:
The Christ
Though worshipped as
God,
A dead man stiff as if artificially aborted from the womb
By a species dying to mercilessly mangle its own,
This boxed tomb a king’s throne,
Rotting flesh over bruised bone while lying stiff—alone—
A bed fit for a mocked king.
Who will join in on this kind of hymn
Devoid of the pomp and pomposity that Easter brings,
Where one must face the cold, stark
Truth
And in metaphor it is not just God that we make eternal but truth (our truth) Yet in the tomb it is as dead and the God.
Thank you so much, Soren. Much appreciated. I am so glad the poem resonated and presented in the way I had hoped. That paining by Holbein has always captivated me...how starkly realistic the death is in it. It always has fascinated and inspired me and, so, this. Thank you for your time and for your feedback, my friend. Always, appreciated.
Dark, disturbing, haunting and very graphic imagery, and the conclusion rightly nothing or no one can avoid death, a brilliant write
Thank you, Tobani! Glad it delivered and resonated. Your time and thoughts are highly valued and appreciated!
You are very welcome
A description of KP there! Ohh, I love to 'hate' her. Well, not hate exactly, just bring her down a peg or two. lol.
Hey, I avoided death. I was gonna end it all, but the train was cancelled. Doh! Behave, says Fido to me.
Have you ever seen the movie, "Final Destination"? 🤣 Thank you my friend, much appreciated!
Nope, not seen the film, but a bus driver said to me 'This is the terminus; the final destination'. lol. Behave Orchi, says Fido!
Excellent write Tristan
Thank you, Tony! Much appreciated, my friend!
You're welcome
I read this poem, researched the Holbein painting and reread the poem Tristan. You have truly excelled here. Such detail in the description, the imagery is graphic and your choice of language and the alliteration top notch. An exceptional write which left me in thought for sometime afterwards at the cruelty of our species, the suffering we cause and the fact that we are all going to die anyway. Haunting and masterful.
Indeed. Thank you so much, Cassie! indeed, the painting itself expresses all of that when one looks at it. It has always captivated...haunted...me. I am glad that my poem delivered and that it left you in thought. That is all I could ever ask for. Your analysis is both astute and affirming, dear poet. Thank you so much! ❤️🙏
an image captured perfectly in words .. I had an idea write from the off .. from the very first introductory two lines in fact .. Neville
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