Death is dressed in white,
bed-sheet pale, with rasping breath;
his callous hands caress the child,
whisper words of anguish, calling
for a fever-ridden sleep
of his fatal consumption.
Talking in tongues of his mother
he cajoles with the coldness of snow
on the moonlit wake of a corpse.
The child will remember the night
when left alone at a deathbed
he had to cover his ears for the calls
from him, the palest of ghosts.
Melissa gives us three images of to depict haunting at dVerse today. She tells how some of the paintings has been said to invoke sounds and various strange matters. The image by Edward Munch to me also told the story of the white plague or tubercholosis which was a huge killer up till the invention of antibiotics. My father did have it as a child, and was actually living in Oslo when he was sick, so the story tells me a lot. I call the child a boy, both because it could depict the painter whose mother died from tubercholosis when he was young. At that times young boys and girls or toddlers where dressed in this kind of dresses.
October 20, 2026
A powerful word portrait of death, Björn. I love the phrase ‘cajoles with the coldness of snow’.
It really talked to me… and I remembered all those stories of the white death of tubercholosis I grew up with
Both my grandmother and my mother had TB. I have photos of my mum looking ghostly pale.
It was so deadly and that paleness I also remember from reading the lady of the chamelias….
I read that book too!
Evocative, in frightening but lyrical detail of another time, when we humans were shadowed constantly…here you have put it right in front of us. I think of people like Franz Kafka, and of course composers and other artists who died from ‘consumption’…a different existence, and in a ghastly way, one that works so well in poetry.
The white death has a certain allure, and so important in literature too… Thomas Mann as well.
Bravo! A chilling poem
Much love
Thanks Gillena
A brilliantly haunting and evocative poem, Björn! That personification of the white death sends shivers down the spine.
It felt very real when writing it.
Great creepy atmosphere in this poem.
I think it mirrors what I saw in the painting.
You woven in some haunting imagery – I thought the child was a girl – maybe I should have looked closer – although we all find the story we want to tell – you’ve taken us right into the scene wonderfully – Jae
It is not easy to see it was a girl or a boy… but at the time this happened toddlers where all dressed the same (in summer it was very practical since no diapers where needed)
Thanks Bjorn – and for the historical context
A haunting that will follow that child all his life! Your description gripped me.
It was a terrible time.
Sad, sad. Lovely images.
The pale death was really a killer.
and still is…
Wonderful opening line, Björn. I can tell this resonates with you. It’s so interesting that your father had TB as a child in Oslo. (I’m trying to remember, they were there during the Occupation, but I think they escaped?)
I read a Polish horror novel about a man in a TB sanatarium in Europe just before the start of WW!.
My father in Oslo was much earlier, but my mother lived in Bergen when the Germans came.
Thank you for the clarification. At least I remembered you had some Norway connection! 😊
Truly haunting! Well done.
The more you know about the picture the more haunting it gets.
Excellent.
Thanks
This is excellent, Björn! I love your use of description, especially in
“bed-sheet pale, with rasping breath;”
and “Talking in tongues of his mother
he cajoles with the coldness of snow”
You give death a moody and eery quality, and the poem evokes a sense of uncomfortability in the reader.
Knowing the background of the picture made it more haunting to me.
It must be haunting for the child…
💔
This definitely had a personal resonance for you Björn, even before your account of your father having TB it came through so clearly…
Thank you… yes TB is something I remember from my childhood… including the scar on everybody’s arm from the inoculation.
Yes! That funny little circle of puncture marks – probably the first scar any of us received…
Great poem. Really brings the macabre out of the painting.
My father was only 4 when his mother died in the 1918 pandemic. His only memory was her lying in a casket. A trauma the feeds the following generations