Thank you to my colleague Alison, for drawing my attention to Thomas Hardy’s poem, “The Dead Man Walking”. It is a powerful piece which does, I believe speake for itself, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZP1v54SeHY4
I spent the earlier portion of this evening with my old friend Jeff. As ever, our conversation ranged far and wide. One topic on which we dwelt at length revolved around what constitutes reality and how, at any given point we can be certain that what we are experiencing is real. When one dies, my friend remarked, the world ceases to exist. While I don’t wish to get into whether my dear friend is, in fact right, I had in the back of my mind during the entirety of our conversation a poem by A. E. Housman and, on returning home I felt compelled to look it up. The lines run thus:
“Good creatures, do you love your lives
And have you ears for sense?
Here is a knife like other knives,
That cost me eighteen pence.
I need but stick it in my heart
And down will come the sky,
And earth’s foundations will depart
And all you folk will die”.
Kevin
Alone
At home
I sensed an intruder in my hall.
My mouth was dry
And I could not call
Out for help.
For his throat I felt
And smelt
A stench as of a thing long since deceased.
All grappling ceased
And through my fear
I recognised death
Standing near.
—
The above poem is based on a dream I dreamed several days ago. While dreaming, I was conscious of a profound sense of fear, heightened by the terrible stench emminating from the intruder in my home. However it was only on awakening that I recognised the presence as that of the angel of death.
Sitting in a field
I watch the grain yield
To the fickle
Sickle
That momentarily spares a stalk
As onward the reaper doth walk.
When he does approach
Will I reproach
Him and say,
“‘Tis not my day
To die
For the birds fly
In a cloudless sky.
I would gather wild flowers to my breast.
Surely ‘tis not time to rest?
Reaper go your way
For I feign would play
Another hour under the sun”.
Will he reply,
“All things must die.
You have had your fun.
Did you not see time, as the river run
Away?
Cease your play.
Face it like a man, for you have debts to pay”.
When I pass away
My books will stay.
Who can say
Whether readers will delve
Through dusty shelves
And discovering my book
Take a look
Into my soul.
The whole
Me
Now free.
No longer able to care
About those who stare
At what I wrote
In earnest or joke.
What is this desire
That my words light a fire
In hearts I will not know?
I am lust
Dust
And scribbles on a page.
‘ No great matter, when I am mouldering in the grave.
I am not brave
And grope
For hope
In the here and now.
For the plough
Will not disturb my sleep
Nor will I weep
In the solitary grave.
A moving poem by the late Felix Dennis, who died of cancer, http://www.felixdennis.com/Poet/I-plucked-all-the-cherries.aspx
All this will cease.
Then eternal peace
Will forever flow
Washing away woe.
A girl passing through the wood
For a moment stood
Under an ancient oak.
The tree spoke.
“I have seen kingdoms rise and fall
And my branches have decked many a bridal hall.
But kings and lovers are all now dead”.
She heard not the words said
For earplugs fed
Pop music into her head.
Taking a knife she carved, “Lucy loves Tom”
Then, without a backward glance, she was gone.
A beautiful and poignant poem by the English poet, Thomas Hood. “thee tree is living yet” says it all.
—
I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.
I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.
Sitting at my desk
Thinking of the final rest.
No need to weep
When I take my final sleep.
I will not know
When I go
To the place where snow
Does not fall
And even the raven’s call
Can not penetrate
For beyond the eternal gate
There is neither love nor hate.
K Morris - Poet 