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| Poems on Death, Loss, and Mourning http://vm.n6nu.org/bbs/viewtopic.php?f=3&t=906 |
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| Author: | Mahatma [ Fri Sep 05, 2003 9:50 am ] |
| Post subject: | Poems on Death, Loss, and Mourning |
Since there are a few folks going through this, I thought I'd post some of the greatest poems in the English language on the subject. Sometimes it helps to hear someone expressing the same grief in exactest, purest, finest language. This one is by Dylan Thomas, who wrote it because his father was dying, but couldn't seem to acknowledge it himself. The lyric expresses the poignant desperation of a son -- that his father should keep on living. ***************************************** Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. |
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| Author: | Mahatma [ Fri Sep 05, 2003 11:55 am ] |
| Post subject: | |
This poem is by W.H. Auden. It was made popular by the film Four Weddings and a Funeral. It expresses the absoluteness of grief. Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West. My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good. |
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| Author: | Mahatma [ Fri Sep 05, 2003 2:34 pm ] |
| Post subject: | |
No writing assignments for you, really. Just another good poem, this time by a 17th-century poet named John Donne (Thomas and Auden are 20th-century poets). The pathos here is generated by the attempt to diminish a personified Death so much that it shows the powerlessness of the mortal speaker. DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so, For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then; One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die. |
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| Author: | Hermskii [ Fri Sep 05, 2003 4:39 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Good |
Thank you Mah. I had my wife come in and read them. She said it was very sweet of you to post these. She read the other post too. She wants me to thank each of you for your replies and stories and she grieves for the others who have suffered a loss. She said right after the passing moment that it was the hardest thing she had ever had to do but that she wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else but with Snow (her dog) in her final time here on earth. |
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| Author: | Mahatma [ Fri Sep 05, 2003 11:51 pm ] |
| Post subject: | |
My pleasure, Herm and Mrs. Herm. Here's a great one by a 19th-century poet, Emily Dickinson. The last 4 lines will knock your socks off. After great pain, a formal feeling comes— The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs— The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round— Of Ground, or Air, or Ought— A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone— This is the Hour of Lead— Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow— First—Chill—then Stupor—then letting go— |
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| Author: | blondehottie [ Sat Sep 06, 2003 1:53 am ] |
| Post subject: | |
very beautiful mah thank you hotts |
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