Poem in Your Pocket: 7 Stages of Grief

The Academy of American Poets launched National Poetry Month in April 1996. The goal of National Poetry Month is to remind all that in a world awash in text, poetry matters. Every April since, poetry readers and nonreaders alike can’t help but notice poetry cropping up amongst the blooms of spring—poems suddenly adorning sandwich boards and subway cars, Instagram feeds, drivetime radio and especially in local library displays. This year, Off the Shelf invited four lovers of poetry to contribute a post for a Poem in Your Pocket series to gift our readers a new poem for every day of the week. Below is the third installment in this series. Check in every Friday for your next set of pocket poems!

Poetry has always been the compass that guides me; it is what I turn to in joy and in sadness. Currently the world is in mourning, with grief mingled into our daily routines—be it personal, or on a global scale. We have all lost something or someone in these years of pandemic and coping with ongoing grief in everyday life is a challenge. Grief doesn’t always make sense; sorrow can be a jumble of chaotic emotions without a map. But reading poems can bring light, create some space in the journey and remind the reader that they are not alone.

Here are seven poems for the seven stages of grief. These incandescent poets have collections that can be found on our Library shelves.

Please note, poetry is not a replacement for mental health services. If you or someone you know is struggling, SAMHSA can help. You are not alone.

Shock and Denial

“Grief” by Barbara Crooker - Crooker describes grief as a river.  As Auden does in “Funeral Blues,” Crooker is asking for reprieve, protecting her grief from a future unknown by keeping herself frozen, stuck. Her lyricism brings the stubborn root of grief into focus, warmth and light all wrapped around a core of denial. (More by Barbara Crooker)

Pain and Guilt

“Yasmeen” by Safia Elhillo - Elhillo’s contrapuntal poem (a poem written in two columns that can be read down as well as across) is as much about what is said as it is about what is unfurled through reading (listen to the author read the poem). "Yasmeen” is a discovery, line by line, of how small sadness can lead to a future unfounded. (More by Safia Elhillo)

Anger

“Pluto Shits on the Universe” by Fatimah Asghar - Sadness and rage are transmutable. Y’all remember when Pluto was a planet? I do, too. This poem is all bravado and rage and chaos; this is a poem that is claiming freedom. Pluto embodies the wrathful and unfiltered, loud and brash, an injection of energy that tugs towards another transmutation. (More by Fatimah Asghar)

Depression/Reflection/Loneliness

“Tin Woman’s Lament” by Yolanda Wisher - Wisher’s plain language haunts me. Honest and powerful, each line is a thump against the chest. Her language is bare and rhythmic—like gripping a live wire. She creates a truly poignant moment, as soothing as a breath of fresh air. (More by Yolanda Wisher)

Upward Turn

“She Is” by Tsering Wangmo Dhompa - Sometimes poems are luminous. Dhompa uses each line to tell a separate story: moments of promise, of growth and openness. This poem reminds us that we can always find light, even when it is darkest. (More by Tsering Wangmo Dhompa)

Reconstruction and Working Through

“The House He Built” by Adeeba Afshan Rana - This poem can’t be found in a collection at the library because I wrote it just before the pandemic began. I offer it to you, here. My father passed away in February of this year. May his next journeys be blessed and may this post bring some light to all of our collective grief.

“Whoever builds a mosque for Allah, Allah will build for him a house like it in Paradise.” 

(Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī) 

 

My father chose to build his haven for God 

in the far corner of rock strewn, unceded land,  

the land of the Penobscot. 

 

I remember the first time he pointed out the small house,  

yellow clapboard on a crooked lawn. 

It is not the masjid I grew up going to. 

I have never bowed my head in sujda upon those rugs. 

 

I remember dropping my siblings off for Sunday school. 

I remember the fundraisers. 

I remember the first time my stepmother  

took my father’s wheelchair to jummah, 

six months after he had the first stroke. 

I remember marking the masjid electric bill paid  

when we cleaned out his desk four months before that. 

 

My father built his haven for God  

so that God would remember  

to build a haven for him in paradise. 

 

2. Before (he dies) 

 

I have always believed in miracles. 

I never used to fear retribution. 

Is my father receiving his punishment on earth  

because he built his house in paradise? 

For every slap and punch and kick  

he gave his wives, his children,  

is this how he is reaping his reward?  

 

My stepmother is always praying for miracles.  

Praying for him to heal.  

I am ashamed because I know better.  

I know that miracles do not always heal men,  

I know what it is to pray for release. 

I know that a quick death is a miracle. 

 

Years of conflicted prayers  

fighting in the ether since jump. 

 

3. The Trial 

 

I have imagined his death so many times.  

The relief of it. His body no longer his jailor, 

 his soul resting in the house he built. 

 

I don’t know how he will die. 

I am afraid he will linger, as he does now, 

his body beaten, surrounded by the  

filth of his own fluids. 

I am afraid it will be interminable. 

 

It already is. 

 

When the non-believers asked the Prophet 

to turn Safa into a mountain of gold,  

to will their belief in precious metal, 

he bargained with God,  

but he would not give up his plea for mercy. 

The mountain remained rock and soil, 

mercy is more precious than gold.  

 

None of my father’s victims would deny him mercy.  

When will his miracle come? 

 

4. Enduring 

 

When my stepmother finally calls to tell me, 

I wonder if I will call my cousin.  

Say “come, I need you.”  

And if he will come.  

Or if his father will tell him not to,  

because even now, my father  

represents the shameful way  

my uncle let his sister live until  

she said “enough.” 

Until she walked away.  

 

The shameful way he asked her to go back  

instead of helping her move forward. 

 

5. Afterwards 

 

I know we will all sit around, 

chatting and eating; 

my siblings, my father’s siblings, 

his nieces and nephews,  

his ex-wife, his widow. 

 

We will sit around and shoot the shit, 

telling jokes and stories, laughing as we 

unwrap as many portions of his life as we can. 

 

“He lived,” we will say, “he worked so hard.” 

Nobody will say “stroke,”  

nobody will say “tragedy.” 

We won’t mention anything after 2005.   

 

6. The Burial   

 

When he dies, I will sing for him. 

After his janazza, after he is  

nestled in the ground, 

I will sing. 

 

Even if no one asks,  

I’ll be ready with the naat  

I have spent the past year memorizing  

just for him.  

 

Because no matter who he was, 

who he chose to be, 

he taught me to count, 

he built a house for God, 

and he made sure I knew  

how to love a man despite his flaws. 

Acceptance

“Untitled” by Tess Nealon Raskin - This stunning poem, written by a teen and pulled from the 2021 Ned Vizzini Teen Writing Contest Journal, is full of peace. Raskin’s images are projections of light, the semifinalist has written a moving declaration.

I will go simply. 

Like moths peeling from yellowed screens, 

like a dirty plate slipping under the grey water of the sink, 

I will wait for my time. 

Not under hot, energy efficient lights 

and white sheets as flocks of sobs press like hail against 

my aging skin, no, not by the hands of 

teddy-bear, plastic flowers, 

wall cross, Christmas ornament 

always-in-our-hearts angels. 

My father’s father writhed inside his head 

as we kept him on drips and medicines, 

his eyes closed, long gone 

and I felt myself join in a throng 

of tired, inherited tears. 

When I have learned all there is to learn, 

I will fix myself a warm, sweet drink in my favorite glass 

soften my thoughts and walk into the water 

to feel the moonlight on my skin 

for the poetry of my body to give out quietly 

out of the blue, and into the black. 

---

Adeeba Afshan Rana is a poet and librarian who reads and writes in Brooklyn. She is committed to compassion, engagement, and the wonder of inquiry. She often goes on adventures, works with young people, swims in oceans, and cooks meals for family and friends.