A hundred and one butter lamps

This poem by Tsering Wangmo Dhompa really knocked me out: Bardo A hundred and one butter lamps are offered to my uncle who is no more. Distraction proves fatal in death. A curtain of butter imprints in air. After the burning of bones, ashes are sent on pilgrimage. You are dead, go into life, we pray.

We grow accustomed to the dark

Here’s a poem by Emily Dickinson that i had not encountered before: We Grow Accustomed to the DarkEmily Dickinson We grow accustomed to the Dark –When light is put away –As when the Neighbor holds the LampTo witness her Goodbye – A Moment – We uncertain stepFor newness of the night –Then – fit our