Blacking Out the Death of Mr. Carew

A poem found in the depths of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

For one thing, there is a weekly reading going on of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, hosted by one of my book’s editors. For another, I had never read it! For a third, this strange little novel is nothing like what I expected. It is not: long, difficult, Frankenstein-fraught or Incredible Hulk-infused. It is: short, dark, and psychological, with a protagonist who is neither of the titular characters. A heavy dose of foggy London fireside mystery. Roger Chillingworth’s picture of Dorian Gray a very buried lede. In short, I recommend it for December reading.

I’m thinking in fragments because the fourth thing is that my publisher, who will be producing a print version of the story, complete with illustrations and verse, has issued a poetry call to companion the read-along. I am obsessed with found poetry these days. (I am also eschewing commas lately in my verse.) This is my contribution, which demanded to heavily borrow Emily Dickinson’s em dash:

Blacking out the Death of Mr. Carew

The startled startling living – 
a fog small and cloudless – 
never more at peace 
with the kindly world

but (beautiful and accosted) – 
pleased to watch to 
breathe wander never listen – 
To brandish to hurt.

A storm lay in the middle of 
the lane the deed 
– I shall say nothing. 
God help us over

heaven with its muddy ways
this mournful invasion of darkness –
assails – ragged in the doorways – 
Yes, at home in strange habits – 

often absent I had better tell 
you of joy. Ah! 
Trouble! don’t seem the whole 
extent – ransacked  

as the end of delight found 
to be complete. (You
may depend up on it.) I have
lost all burned the life

to nothing – but wait –
this last accomplishment
differed widely they agreed –
the haunting beholders.