Tony Pupello
Essay #33 May/June 2026
“Death is a joke played on us by God – no one gets out alive”.
While “no one gets out alive” is often attributed to The Doors’ Jim Morrison, I am not sure if Morrison was the first to express this, (I can’t think that over the centuries no one hadn’t thought/voiced this sentiment); nor am I sure who the extended version above may be attributed to — nor if it preceded or proceeded Morrison’s. There is no escaping, though, the irony of either. I am sure there are quite a few haiku poets who have explored the ironies of death and its concomitants. On the heels of last issue’s look at death in haiku, in this essay I take a look at some of the more ironic work, at times amusing, more often not.
The two poems below, by LeRoy Gorman and Marian Olson respectively, are reflective of two cultural traditions. On the surface they appear to be light. I am not so sure.
no way out the child licks
Death’s at the door a candy skull
demanding candy Day of the Dead
Gorman’s piece, clearly, speaks to Halloween. A youngster in the guise of “Death” is trick-or-treating. We can chuckle at the scene of an insistent child “demanding” candy. There is a subtle undertone, a bit of foreboding however as, echoing our opening above, there will come a time when there will be “no way out”; when “Death” will be demanding something far greater of us.
The “Día de los Muertos” as many of us now know, (was a time not long ago when this was not the case), is a national holiday in Mexico. Most would agree it combines elements of the Christian All Soul’s Day with aboriginal, most probably Aztec, influences. In the continuum of life and death, the holiday is seen as a celebration, a joyous time, of welcoming back spirits into our lives if only for a short period of time. As such it is festive, filled with music, decorations and foods — especially sweet foods. So, not so strange a child should be eating candy. And yet, this particular piece of candy is a candy skull of all things!
Death notices can ofttimes affect us in unusual ways as can be seen in the poems by Michael Ketchek and Alanna C. Burke below.
to start obituary
the fire he always enjoyed
obituaries reading fiction
I find Ketchek’s use of the obituary pages to start a fire very interesting. Could they simply be the least desirable pages of a newspaper at hand, hence the ones to use? Or could they have contained the death notice of a loved one and this is Ketchek’s way of alleviating the pain? Finally, from a more metaphorical perspective, as death often serves as a catalyst for those left behind, has this death served to “light a fire” within or beneath Ketchek in some way prodding him towards a new direction or objective in life?
A more light-hearted tone can be found in Burke’s poem. Is the author musing on the fact the deceased would have chuckled at the notion of his own death? Or, is Burke flirting with the fact herself — perhaps not believing nor wanting to believe it. Is she not shifting the paradigm by equating the obituary with “fiction”?
Dan McKinley, Veronica Patterson, Jack Barry and Stephen Toft, respectively, offer us ironic, sometimes comic, insights into the funeral home experience.
new year calendar funeral service
compliments of this beige chapel —
the funeral home available for weddings
closed casket autumn dusk
the funeral director’s the undertaker lights
peppermint breath another cigarette
Offering calendars, even in our uber-digital age, is a keen marketing ploy. After all, who among us does not have at least one “paper” calendar at hand for a quick check of the date. I refrain from confessing how many I have just around my desk — though none from funeral homes! And every time we glance at it, are we not reminded of the benevolent provider of said calendar. Just what is the funeral parlor helping us to keep track of or to plan around? McKinley clearly seems to be having fun with this; and rightfully so!
In a similar vein we are treated to Patterson’s “beige chapel”. Not only does and can it host a funeral service, but it is available for weddings as well! How would the poet know this? Is it posted on a sign somewhere in the chapel, or printed in a brochure or, (the height of impropriety I would think!), has it come from the lips of an employee? Innocuous to some, it clearly touched a nerve (or a funny bone), in Patterson — as it probably does for many of us.
Initially, Barry’s “closed casket” takes us in an almost comic direction. Is the poet suggesting bad breath on the part of the funeral director perhaps “covered up” by peppermint drops? Or, in a darker read, is the funeral director’s sweet peppermint breath an “antidote” for the stale taste of death? Darker still, is the poet commenting on the sometimes saccharine approach taken by funeral directors? A lot of room for interpretation here.
Toft’s poem definitely takes us in a dark direction. Undertakers, of all people short of doctors, should know full-well the dangers of smoking. Yet are they not human beings too — with all our shared vices and foibles. Perhaps undertakers and doctors, though they should know better, are most prone to what they feel are stress-reductive activities. Against better judgement, the undertaker is lighting yet another cigarette. Dusk: perhaps this is their way of fending off the dark?
Funeral arrangements March funeral …
my wife more colorful clothes
puts on make-up than flowers
Marco Fraticelli’s “Funeral arrangements” speaks to the irony between propriety and grief. Not only is the immediate family making “funeral arrangements”, the attendees are expected to as well. On the one hand, when attending a funeral, we might expect a woman to “fix her hair”, make sure her make-up is properly applied as we might expect a man to shine his shoes and make sure his kit is properly tailored and ironed. Yet is there not also an understanding, perhaps even a slight expectation, if individuals close to the deceased do not adhere to convention? [I am excluding situations in which, due to religious beliefs, the bereaved are definitely NOT expected to “dress up” nor wear make-up, etc.]
Mohsen Farsani’s poem speaks to a similar sort of irony, interestingly enough, also coloring the situation. Until recently, we would expect colorful flowers and somber dress tones to be the norm. Farsani is highlighting the inverse of this at this early spring funeral. I say “until recently” as “traditional” funerals were viewed as somber events. In recent years, for sure, funerals and memorial services have indeed become more celebratory in nature, filled with laughter, music and color.
The following poem by Margaret Saunders is a marvel of ironic compression. A most interesting place to move on from the funeral home experience, I leave the interpretation to the reader but, suffice it to say, I find this gem greatly amusing.
the funeral director
sizing me up
The two poems by John Newson and Andrew Riutta below offer a take on the ironic side of food at funerals.
grieving after the funeral
the last piece of cake the weight of potato salad
at the funeral on a spork
Newson’s poem is clearly comical. Rather than grieving over the deceased, the wake’s attendee is grieving over the fact that there is only one piece of cake left. Was the first piece of cake so good the poet is lamenting the lack of a second? Or, was the poet late to the cake table, witnessing the last piece of cake being taken by another? I would hope this would not be the sort of acquaintance to attend my wake — but then, I wouldn’t have much say in the matter, would I?
Riutta’s poem is humorous, but much more on the dark side. As we are aware, there are many haiku concerning death in which “weight” is evoked. I can’t help but feel Riutta is riffing on that “weight of death” theme here, but not in a kind manner. To be clear, there is no judgement on my part. If I am correct, and this is a piece of dark humor, it is a very good piece. First, Riutta juxtaposes the weight of death against the weight — of all things! — of potato salad. Then, to push this over the top, he balances that weight on a “spork”. Not a spoon nor a fork, mind, but a spork, most probably of the plastic persuasion! The simple mention of a “spork” in any context brings a smile to my face. It seems like one of those words, one of those things, that is sort of absurd in itself. At least to me.
We can’t discuss a fitting wake without mentioning alcohol. The following poems by Marsh Muirhead and Matthew Louvière offer a take on the ironic side of that staple at many funerals — drink.
father’s funeral At the wake
closed casket — the chandelier
open bar lit up too
Each poem skillfully explores alcohol without mentioning any specifics. Muirhead’s “father’s funeral” certainly leaves that open. Usually an “open bar” would connote a full bar, ie: beer, wine, liqueur and grain spirits. Worth noting is Muirhead’s deft dissonance between the “closed casket”, offering finality and a complete end, and the “open bar”, offering some semblance of future expectations.
One would imagine it is at least the poet who is also “lit up” in Louvière’s poem, if not more of the mourners. Not specifying exactly who or how many drinkers there are leaves abundant room for the reader to fill in and indeed become part of the poem’s experience. “Lit up” implies a substantial amount of alcohol has been imbibed. A final note, I don’t see this as a blue collar wake. There aren’t many chandeliers in bars, community rooms or VFW halls.
When preparing this essay I wasn’t thinking along the lines invoked by Don Korobkin or Virginia Brady Young below, (certainly noting Carlos Colón’s “funeral procession” from Essay #32). Both of these poems express a certain amount of irony as regards cars and funerals.
so many cars aging hooker
illegally parked — staring into space:
policeman’s funeral the funeral cars move on …
A major problem encountered by many funeral homes, certainly those in an urban setting, is how to deal with parking — both for mourners attending and for the funeral procession set-up. At least two funeral homes in Lower Manhattan deal with parking in this way — if you are bringing a car to get to and from the funeral home, there are parking lots available; in the funeral procession set-up, the funeral home cars are lined up in front of the funeral parlors to be joined by additional mourner cars at a later intersection. A policeman’s funeral, as any other, is going to have to deal with the issue of parking. On one hand, Korobkin’s “so many cars” can be viewed as rather light-hearted irony. Police, human beings, are solving the parking problem by illegally parking. On another hand, is this a deeper indictment of that irony? Should those charged with upholding the law not be breaking it?
Young’s poem is a masterpiece — a moment and much, much more. Like the ripples in a pond when a rock is tossed in. The irony, of course, is that many solicitation situations involve solicitors driving to known pick-up areas to pick up hookers. In Young’s piece, of course, the cars involved are funeral cars — cars that are actively involved in either the set-up or the actual funeral procession itself. Young’s poem is filled with pathos. Is the “aging hooker” (the term itself simply reverberates), staring into space to avoid looking at the funeral cars — either out of respect or out of the fear of contemplating her own mortality? Or, realizing there is no way these cars are passing this way for her, is she choosing to ignore them as there is no business to be had?
Mortality being the cessation of time, the passage of time is central to the thoughts provoked at a funeral. I think the poems below, by Fatma Zohra Habis and Jeff Witkin respectively, highlight this centrality.
temporarily cemetery
the leave the cemetery — the gate keeper
funeral mourners asks me to wait
Habis’ piece is incredibly thought provoking and well-done. On the surface a simple exposition of a commonplace moment. Mourners are leaving a cemetery temporarily — perhaps because their funeral cortege arrived too early; perhaps because an earlier funeral has been delayed; perhaps because the graveside officiant has been delayed. There is, I am thinking, a much deeper moment here. Notice the stark emphasis on “temporarily”. Habis has indeed recalled, “no one gets out alive”. We may be leaving the cemetery today but, like the deceased, we will be back at some point — permanently. It being a question not of “if” but of “when”.
Witkin’s poem is a tad lighter, but no less thought provoking. What reason would a cemetery gate keeper have to ask me to wait? At first I smile at this poem but then I think “what am I waiting for?” Does the gate keeper “know something I should know?” I am certainly drawn into this mystery.
Over the past ten or fifteen years our world has become much more digital than ever before. Nowhere has this been more evidenced — for better or worse — than in our virtual dealings during the COVID crisis. At the height of the crisis we couldn’t even bury our dead properly. Certainly patients on the precipice of death were denied spiritual comfort, to the point that even end-of-life rituals, including last rites for some, could not be administered. And what of those left behind? How were we to mourn our dead? Tyrone McDonald and Peter Newton offer us some insights.
Zoom funeral how ghosts
each of us must feel
in our own box Zoom funeral
As those of us who have attended Zoom “calls” (or participated on any similar video-conferencing platforms) know — is there anyone out there who hasn’t at this point?! — attendees are displayed in their “own” “Hollywood Squares” type frames. Newton is commenting on both the feelings of isolation and estrangement felt during a Zoom service as well as the reality that the Zoom participants are also in their own virtual caskets.
McDonald takes this further. A funeral, wake or memorial service certainly fosters surreal feelings. We can’t imagine the person in a casket so vibrant and alive perhaps even a few days before now lifeless and still, or the person displayed in a memorial photo simply gone. McDonald captures the heightened feelings of disembodiment and alienation the poet experiences by not being able to share the physical space with the deceased, nor with others. The poet can “see” but cannot reach out and touch, nor be touched. How apt, “how ghosts must feel” indeed! Is the digital solution here a blessing or a curse?!
Essay #32 was not sunniest of essays and, although this essay definitely has its share of comic humor, overall it is somewhat dark. As such I offer the five poems below for your sheer comic entertainment. They all made me chuckle. Although they are all worthy poems, (else I would never have brought them to your attention), I have no exposition to offer — save a very quick note on Brutschy’s “Born Again” — sheesh, I know a couple of folks like this and they, as the poem, make me more than smile — they make me laugh out loud!
funeral over
spring
in the heir
- Kevin Goldstein-Jackson
retirement home
laundry sign — “No dying
in these tubs”
- Helen E. Dalton
his death
added to her litany
of compaints
- Tom Painting
Old cemetery —
Grandpa sticking his tongue out
at the camera
- Diane Webster
Born Again
she speaks excitedly
of death
- Jennifer Brutschy
Another poem by Tom Painting will close out this essay.
year’s end
I give the graveyard
a passing glance
In this marvelous piece, at year’s end is the poet being serious, reflective; acknowledging to himself that perhaps the graveyard is a bit closer than he would like and only wants to afford it, only can afford it, a passing glance? Or, in the interpretation I favor (possibly not the one Painting intended) — is that passing glance only what the graveyard deserves to be given? After all, it’s not only year’s end, but we’re on the cusp of a new year. Just a passing glance — not my time yet, not by a long shot. So long cemetery!
