Afterlife of Redolence
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
The flowers across the fields of asphodels
Are white, white, white, according to the myth.
These meadows help to cast the drowse-like spells
Of mild forgetfulness, one tiny crith
Of weight at most, a tiny sleepiness,
No pain but only mild, mild pleasure’s weight.
These meadows have no space for weepiness,
And pleasure is so slight its only fate
Is more like dreams in opium. The white
Of blossoms in these meadows give these minds
A prettiness of pleasure like a sleight
Of hand delivered by the gods with blinds.
The spirits here have drunk the Lethe stream,
No nightmares, only a vanilla dream.
~ Phillip Whidden