David Mitchell Poems

Hail, magical and awe-inspiring bean,
Salvation of the fat and of the lean,
Blest refuge in this wretched vale of tears,
Inspiriting the ever-rolling years;
...

The earth each day travels her weary round,
Partly in sunlight, partly in darkness hid;
Around the sun she goes without a sound,
And nothing her trajectory can forbid:
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What is a poet? a person who writes
And longs to ascend to Olympian heights;
A person who's seized with irregular madness,
Who's joyous when glad and depressed in his sadness;
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The sun has sunk beneath the skies,
But leaves a soft warm glow behind;
And, climbing slowly down, he dies,
Like me to heavy rest inclined:
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I do not think I ever saw
A squirrel red before:
I do not think that I shall see
Another evermore.
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Tell me, sir, where is my Lord, for they have taken him away,
Said Mary Magdalene before the dawning of the day,
And I know not where they've laid him, - sir, with him what have you done?
Mary, soft said the risen Christ and Everlasting Sun.
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This day is dark and dismal, as our sorrows we bewail:
As we reflect upon our extinct Master's woeful tale:
We fail'd him in his life, even as we fail him in his death:
And shall we see his like again - Jesus of Nazareth?
...

I always thought that poetry ought
To transcend bounds of time:
I realize I archaize —
I sometimes even rhyme.
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When I die, I am going to go to heaven.
I hope so, anyway.
But I do not comprehend what heaven is, or how.
It is in opposition to hell.
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The sun shines bright through azure skies,
Perpetually shedding his rays,
Even when into the dark he hies, —
All nights at length turn into days.
...