After the death of our son
Neither the sorrows of afternoon, waiting in the silent house,
Nor the night no sleep relieves, when memory
Repeats its prosecution.
Nor the morning's ache for dream's illusion, nor any prayers
Improvised to an unknowable god
Can extinguish the flame.
We are not as we were. Death has been our pentecost,
And our innocence consumed by these implacable
Tongues of fire.
Comfort me with stones. Quench my thirst with sand.
I offer you this scarred and guilty hand
Until others mix our ashes.
Dana Gioia's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Pentecost by Dana Gioia )
- imoremi, umoh cyril
- Palm's Greeting, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- The land of the stars is the land of Sta.., Raymond Sawyer
- enjoy the silence.... in my fart, Jena Crowe
- Over-Ride, Lawrence S. Pertillar
- Song, Blessing Ekpe
- Everyone Asks, Tirupathi Chandrupatla
- Sooner or later عاجلا ام اجلا, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- The Fools Game, Poetic Lilly Emery
- Dragons Of The Night, David Harris
Poem of the Day
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- It Is the Hour, George Gordon Byron
- The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe
- In Flanders Field, John McCrae
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep, Mary Elizabeth Frye
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1927)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(24 January 1572 - 31 March 1631)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)