Tag Archives: the grim reaper

Archaic Language or References in Poetry

Some time ago, a friend commented that a number of my poems where, in his view a little old fashioned in their use of language and references. When I asked him for an example, he sighted my not infrequent references to “the Reaper” and “the Grim Reaper”. At that juncture I was somewhat taken off guard and did not, so far as I can recollect provide my friend with a coherent response to his comments on my poetry. However, a little while after the conversation with him took place, I happened to hear Blue Oyster Cult’s “Baby Don’t Fear” playing, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dy4HA3vUv2c&list=RDDy4HA3vUv2c&start_radio=1

Whilst I certainly would never advocate that poets go back to writing in the style of the Elizabethans, or to that of the Victorians, I don’t believe that writers of poetry should be constrained in their poetic creations by what some people hold to be archaic references or language should they choose to employ such references or vocabulary. I, for one shall continue to engage with my old acquaintance the Reaper, for we are on nodding terms having met whilst I spent some 6 weeks in the Walton Neuro Centre after having under gone an operation for the removal of a brain abscess.

You can find a video of me reading my poem “time”, which references the Reaper here Time

For “Passing Through: Some Thoughts on Life and Death”, which was written primarily during my stay in hospital, please visit Passing Through: Some thoughts on life and death: Amazon.co.uk: Morris, K: 9798284279151: Books

Guest Post By Poet Kevin Morris on Esther Chilton’s Blog

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Today I am a guest on Ester Chilton’s blog. In my guest post I talk about what caused me to write my poetry collection, “Passing Through: Some Thoughts on Life and Death”. To read my article pleas follow this link to Esther Chilton’s blog https://estherchilton.co.uk/2025/06/13/guest-writer-spot-172/?jetpack_skip_subscription_popup. Please do leave any comments you may have on Esther’s blog.

Seizure

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I felt no cold breath of Death

Nor the Reaper’s skeletal hand.

Yet he greeted me

And I mumbled and tumbled

And found myself on the cold ground

Where all are bound.

Death can command us all.

When he calls man must fall.

He greeted me in jest.

But he will tire of play

And I will find rest

For Death he ends all play.

Mowing

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I passed by men mowing the churchyard grass.

When I came that way again

The men had passed, to go and mow

Some other grass perhaps.

I have walked the churchyard path

So oft , and passing by graves have coughed

Due to the hay.

One day the mower will pass,

And I will lie under the churchyard grass.

In Our Youth

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In our youth

We search for fairies.

Then when we reach maturity

We see the truth.

There are no fairies

Or white knights

To ride to our rescue.

There is love and lust

And the Reaper

Who sweeps.

Sleep

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Sometimes I find my mind

Dwelling on love and sleep.

My lover’s kiss

Is passing bliss.

But the Reaper keeps

His special kiss

For my inevitable sleep.

I Know A Young Lady Named Beth

How Convenient To Have A Graveyard So Close To My Home

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How convenient to have a graveyard
So close to my home.
‘Twill not be hard
As, when I die
There will not be far to go
For my bones
But, you know
The place has remained undisturbed
By burials for many a year.
I am perturbed
And shed a tear
As I do not know
Where I shall go
When I die.

Perhaps my ashes will, in a pub find a place
And the drinker, with his or her flushed face
Will look at me and say,
“He used to drink this way.
Another beer
Here barman, for I feel suddenly queer
And must drink
Else I shall think
On dust
And he, who has into the grave been thrust!”.

I dislike
The idea of fire
And my desire
Is for burial. Yet the night
Will come down all the same
So why should I care
Whether I am consumed by flame
Or end up underground?
For the truth profound
Is that I will not be there
To know or care.

The Reaper of Grain

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I am rested today.
I shall stay that way,
Getting plenty of sleep
But, sooner or later
This prater
Will, his toil
Cease, and find peace
In nature’s good soil,
For I maintain
That none can foil
The reaper of grain.