Giorno dei Morti
Along the avenue of cypresses,
All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices
Of linen, go the chanting choristers,
The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . .
And all along the path to the cemetery
The round dark heads of men crowd silently,
And black-scarved faces of womenfolk, wistfully
Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands
With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;
And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels
With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels
The coming of the chanting choristers
Between the avenue of cypresses,
The silence of the many villagers,
The candle-flames beside the surplices.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Related quotes
Service of all the Dead
Between the avenues of cypresses,
All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices
Of linen, go the chaunting choristers,
The priests in gold and black, the villagers.
And all along the path to the cemetery
The round, dark heads of men crowd silently
And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully
Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands
With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;
And at the foot of a grave a woman kneels
With pale shut face, and neither hears not feels
The coming of the chaunting choristers
Between the avenues of cypresses,
The silence of the many villagers,
The candle-flames beside the surplices.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Imploring To Be Resigned At Death
Let me die and not tremble at death,
But smile at the close of my day,
And then, at the flight of my breath,
Like a bird of the morning in May,
Go chanting away.
Let me die without fear of the dead,
No horrors my soul shall dismay,
And with faith's pillow under my head,
With defiance to mortal decay,
Go chanting away.
Let me die like a son of the brave,
And martial distinction display,
Nor shrink from a thought of the grave,
No, but with a smile from the clay,
Go chanting away.
Let me die glad, regardless of pain,
No pang to this world to betray;
And the spirit cut loose from its chain,
So loath in the flesh to delay,
Go chanting away.
Let me die, and my worst foe forgive,
When death veils the last vital ray;
Since I have but a moment to live,
Let me, when the last debt I pay,
Go chanting away.
poem by George Moses Horton
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The Villagers
Pop/du prey
The villagers are out tonight
Uptight and bored
Theyre pushing you
Underground
On wintry days they stand and gaze
Outlines in black and ignorant
Villagers
Dark shadows house a sleepy malice
In the backbrain
Of every body you meet
Man is the village animal
United by the glue
Of our loathsome qualities
We are sneaking peeping toms
In revolt against each other
The villagers are most insane
They live to die anonymous
And muted to... villagers
In revolt against the other
But not against the rules
So in the space age the village idiot rules
On tv for all to see while some good men
Walk the streets
Unh unh unh unh unh
The villagersssssss arghhh
You cant get lost you cant get lost
In the village of space you cant get lost
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Requiem for a rainy day
In stripes the drops splatter against the window
while others join them in a rainstorm,
the blue white of a thunder flash
that falls instantaneously
stays brightly caught on the inner eye
while some drops are still hanging.
On such a drizzly day,
it is said that my dad
was carried to his grave,
with the wind
drawing on mothers black veil
cypresses whipping to and thro
and tears were pouring down,
while the pastor read again
from the Bible and prayed,
people said their last words,
lying rose petals down during the rain,
but in my memory (that of a three year old child) ,
I remember it as a sunny day
on which black cars in a procession
parked just behind our house,
with people with shining shoes
walking on the dirt road
to where the cemetery
was situated across from the house.
With every rain shower
the one side of that grave
now wants to cave in still further
with the branches of the tree that was planted
thoughtlessly on mother’s place fluttering.
[Reference: Requiem vir ‘n reëndag (Requiem for a rainy day) by H.J. Pieterse.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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black RESPECT
Black shoes,
black suits,
black sandals
black you,
black specs,
black life,
black faces,
black casket dropped deep the dark grave,
Red ribbons,
red lights,
red flowers,
red wine.
Hearse sirens
wailing women,
Black speeches,
Blackened praises, all in all they call it the last respect
poem by Joub kahuria
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Vespers
Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
God bless Mummy. I know that's right.
Wasn't it fun in the bath to-night?
The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot.
Oh! God bless Daddy - I quite forgot.
If I open my fingers a little bit more,
I can see Nanny's dressing-gown on the door.
It's a beautiful blue, but it hasn't a hood.
Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good.
Mine has a hood, and I lie in bed,
And pull the hood right over my head,
And I shut my eyes, and I curl up small,
And nobody knows that I'm there at all.
Oh! Thank you, God, for a lovely day.
And what was the other I had to say?
I said 'Bless Daddy,' so what can it be?
Oh! Now I remember it. God bless Me.
Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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5th Avenue
Written by gerry beckley, 1984
Found on perspective.
Walking down 5th avenue
I saw him walking there with you
People see and people talk
Word travels fast round my block
Might just save you the price of writing
I could save you an hour or two
Walking down 5th avenue
Walking down 5th avenue
Dont know what to ask of you
My mind is gettin so confused
Even when I really try
Keeps sounding like Im saying goodbye
Somewhere deep in my heart Im hurtin
cause I keep on remembering you
Walking down 5th avenue
Walking down 5th avenue
Such a long way to go
How many times must I look up and say
What kind of fool am i
But I cant turn my back on the times that we shared
No matter how I try
Walking down 5th avenue
Cant seem to shake the thought of you
Even in the dark of night
Your memories of shining light
Though Im tryin to change direction
I pray what I saw aint true
Walking down 5th avenue
Walking down 5th avenue
Such a long way to go
Do, do, do, do ...
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Black Monkey
My Babbles has a nasty knack
Of keeping monkeys on her back.
A great big black one comes and swings
Right on her sash or pinny strings.
It is a horrid thing and wild
And makes her such a naughty child.
She comes and stands beside my chair
With almost an offended air
And says:--"Oh, Father, why can't I?"
And stamps her foot and starts to cry--
I look at Mother in dismay...
What little girl is this, to-day?
She throws about her nicest toys
And makes a truly dreadful noise
Till Mother rises from her place
With quite a Sunday churchy face
And Babbles silently is led
Into the dark and her own bed.
Never a kiss or one Goodnight,
Never a glimpse of candle light.
Oh, how the monkey simply flies!
Oh, how poor Babbles calls and cries,
Runs from the room with might and main,
"Father dear, I am good again."
When she is sitting on my knee
Snuggled quite close and kissing me,
Babbles and I, we think the same--
Why, that the monkey never came
Only a terrible dream maybe...
What did she have for evening tea?
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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black as night, Elvyra
Watch out they'll say,
she'll come and get you,
black as night Elvyra,
will take your soul,
leaving you with nothing,
you'll never see another,
as dark and souless as her,
you wait and see,
i know what they'll say of me,
black as night Elvyra
They'll say she dances,
with the devil,
that she plays with fire,
that black as nite Elvyra,
you wait and see,
i know what they'll say of me,
Black as night Elvyra
look at her they'll say,
how dark with doom and gloom,
black as night elvyra,
look at her face,
pale as pale,
her black lips,
her black eyes too,
you wait and see,
i know what they'll say of me,
Black as night Elvyra
skinny and pale they'll say,
with raven black hair to opose,
Black as night Elvyra,
she knows your secrets,
whispers from your depths,
watch out for me,
you wait and see,
I'm Black as night Elvyra
poem by Jess Terry
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Rebels
Honey dont walk out Im too drunk to follow
You know you wont feel this way tomorrow
Well, maybe Im a little rough around the edges
Inside a little hollow
I get faced with some things sometimes
That are so hard to swallow
Hey hey hey!
I was born a rebel
Down in dixie on a sunday morning
Yeah with one foot in the grave
And one foot on the pedal
I was born a rebel
Well she picked me up in the morning
And she paid all my tickets
Yeah she screamed in the car
And threw me out in th e thicket
Well I never wouldve dreamed
That her heart was so wicked
Oh but I keep coming back
Cause its so hard to kick it
I was born a rebel
Down in dixie on a sunday morning
Yeah with one foot in the grave
And on e foot on the pedal
I was born a rebel
Even before my fathers fathers
They called us all rebels
Burned our cornfields
And left our cities leveled
I can still see the eyes
Of those blue bellied devils
When Im walkin g round tonight
Through the concrete and metal
I was born a rebel
Down in dixie on a sunday morning
Yeah with one foot in the grave
And one foot on the pedal
I was born a rebel
song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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18th Avenue
Well i rode a while, for a mile or so
Down the road to the eighteenth avenue
And the people i saw were the people i know
And they all came down to take a view
Oh the path was dark and borderless
Down the road to the eighteenth avenue
And it stung my tongue to repeat the words
That i used to use only yesterday
Meanings just dropped to the ground
I tried to remember what i thought
And what i used to say
"don't let me go down" no don't let me go
Oh my hands were tied as i struggled inside
The empty waste of another day
Memories were blank to my eyes
The fire and the glory of that night
Seemed safely locked away
Too hungry to rise. too hungry to
Well i rode a while, for a mile or so
Down the road to the eighteenth avenue
And the people i saw were the people i know
And they all came down to take a view
Oh the path was dark and borderless
Down the road to the eighteenth avenue
But my head felt better as i turned the car
And the airport slowly came to view
One mile said the sign
Checked my bags and made it straight to end gate 22
Made it just in time, boy you've made it just in time
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Single Candle/Death Herself
A single flame lights her face
The face of death
A single candle holds her fears
The fears of death
Her hands clasped anrond their souls
The souls of the dead
She feeds of their screams
The screams of the dead
Her legs lay bellow her
Bellow death
Her black gown over her body
The body of death
Her chest rises and falls with her breath
The breath of death
Her cloak drawn over her long flowing jet hair
The face of death
Her eyes unmoved unfeeling
Do you see it?
Do you see the soul of death?
Do you feel it?
Her skin as white as snow as it fades into darkness
The snow of tears
Her cloths as dark as night that swallows the light
The dark we all shall see
Her eyes close as she feels their souls flow
Flow from the dead
She leaves them there to lay in darkness
She steals from the dead
A single candle lights their faces filled with her
Filled with death
They fall into the darkness of her eyes, of her heart
The darkness of death
A single candle shall stay to light their way
Their way through the dark
A single candle holds their past
The pain and trials
A single candle lights her face
The face of death
A single candle holds her fears
The fears of death herself
A single candle
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Spring On April Avenue
When you dont need me anymore
You realise how much you need me
But I just need you if you not need me
Like the spring on april avenue
Words are wounds
And flowers fly
The smell of dew
Spring on april avenue
The electrification
Every leafs pleasure
Every lightbulb waiting underground
Every child rising through life
Because machines are statues...
Spring on april avenue
Theres no symphony
Just a storm in every eye
Snow in their minds...frozen souls
Spring on april avenue.
Theres too much blinding light
Too many wells, and the walls are coming closer
Too many hearts beating our life
But the heart beat for death not life
Like the spring on april avenue
Divorced...forced from heaven and hell...
Air and the earth...Im...Im...
On april avenue.
poem by Not A Dream Choice
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Dreaming Of Hair
Ivy ties the cellar door
in autumn, in summer morning glory
wraps the ribs of a mouse.
Love binds me to the one
whose hair I've found in my mouth,
whose sleeping head I kiss,
wondering is it death?
beauty? this dark
star spreading in every direction from the crown of her head.
My love's hair is autumn hair, there
the sun ripens.
My fingers harvest the dark
vegtable of her body.
In the morning I remove it
from my tongue and
sleep again.
Hair spills
through my dream, sprouts
from my stomach, thickens my heart,
and tangles from the brain. Hair ties the tongue dumb.
Hair ascends the tree
of my childhood--the willow
I climbed
one bare foot and hand at a time,
feeling the knuckles of the gnarled tree, hearing
my father plead from his window, _Don't fall!_
In my dream I fly
past summers and moths,
to the thistle
caught in my mother's hair, the purple one
I touched and bled for,
to myself at three, sleeping
beside her, waking with her hair in my mouth.
Along a slippery twine of her black hair
my mother ties ko-tze knots for me:
fish and lion heads, chrysanthemum buds, the heads
of Chinamen, black-haired and frowning.
Li-En, my brother, frowns when he sleeps.
I push back his hair, stroke his brow.
His hairline is our father's, three peaks pointing down.
What sprouts from the body
and touches the body?
What filters sunlight
and drinks moonlight?
Where have I misplaced my heart?
What stops wheels and great machines?
What tangles in the bough
and snaps the loom?
Out of the grave
my father's hair
bursts. A strand
pierces my left sole, shoots
up bone, past ribs,
to the broken heart it stiches,
then down,
swirling in the stomach, in the groin, and down,
through the right foot.
What binds me to this earth?
What remembers the dead
and grows towards them?
I'm tired of thinking.
I long to taste the world with a kiss.
I long to fly into hair with kisses and weeping,
remembering an afternoon
when, kissing my sleeping father, I saw for the first time
behind the thick swirl of his black hair,
the mole of wisdom,
a lone planet spinning slowly.
Sometimes my love is melancholy
and I hold her head in my hands.
Sometimes I recall our hair grows after death.
Then, I must grab handfuls
of her hair, and, I tell you, there
are apples, walnuts, ships sailing, ships docking, and men
taking off their boots, their hearts breaking,
not knowing
which they love more, the water, or
their women's hair, sprouting from the head, rushing toward the feet.
poem by Li-Young Lee
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The Indian Mother To Her Son
Thy foot is on thy father's grave,
Thine eye is on thy father's foes,
Here sleeps what once was free and brave!
There, last his war-whoop yell arose!
And where thy sire's last deed was done,
There first thine arm shall wake, my son.
Thou see'st this flower—thy father's heart
Hath nourish'd up its early bloom;
And thou, to me, hast been a part
Of life, and hope, through years of gloom.—
The flowret's stem is rent—and thou
Must tear thee from thy mother now.
Ay, hie thee forth—the red man's yell,
To-night, shall break our foemen's sleep;
And shrieks, and flames, and blood, shall tell,
How Indian hearts their vengeance keep!
How Indian sons in memory nurse
Their dying sires’ revengeful curse.
Yon evening wreath of fleecy smoke
Curls gently up against the sky,—
But once through darker volumes broke
The midnight flame, the mother's cry!
And there again the day-beam's smile,
Shall view a black deserted pile.
The morning of thy life was there
Where white man's foot now blights the soil;
And there return'd from chase or war,
Thy sire was wont to share his spoil—
Revenge his death! I charge thee, boy—
And win the warrior's noble joy.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Infringement of the Rules
Any infringement of the rules
Or minor sin puts her head in
A spin, puts her soul just over
The edge, lingering there in mid
Air waiting for some dark demon
To snatch. Sister Angela rubs sins
From the black beads, utters long
Prayers from the tongue. She firmly
Wrestles with her demons in the bed,
In the cloisters, out there in the dark
Corners of the world, inside her head.
Her father used to say, your demons
Know you better than you do yourself;
They know your pitfalls, your small
Faults, your tiny imperfections that
Cling to your soul like dark bruises on
Fruit. Then he’d beat her black and blue
And leave her in her room to brood and
Suck in the emptiness of thick dark space.
She kisses the black beads as once she
Kissed that Boyle boy behind the bike
Sheds there, not from lust or love, but
For an unholy dare. The knees ache;
The back is stiff, the incense fills her nose
And head. Pray for us now, she mutters,
Her black serge habit tight about her form,
Pushing out her breath, and at the hour of
Our death. Her father lingers in his cancer
Bed; her mother rots in her grave where her
Father drove her with his drunken words
And fisted hands on frail skin. Sister Angela
Washes with her fierce scrubs any small
Infringements of the rules or minor sin,
Hearing her father’s words harsh within.
poem by Terry Collett
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Goodbye to the Poetry of Calcium
Dark cypresses--
The world is uneasily happy;
It will all be forgotten.
--Theodore Storm
Mother of roots, you have not seeded
The tall ashes of loneliness
For me. Therefore,
Now I go.
If I knew the name,
Your name, all trellises of vineyards and old fire
Would quicken to shake terribly my
Earth, mother of spiraling searches, terrible
Fable of calcium, girl. I crept this afternoon
In weeds once more,
Casual, daydreaming you might not strike
Me down. Mother of window sills and journeys,
Hallower of searching hands,
The sight of my blind man makes me want to weep.
Tiller of waves or whatever, woman or man,
Mother of roots or father of diamonds,
Look: I am nothing.
I do not even have ashes to rub into my eyes.
poem by James Arlington Wright
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Nutsack
Shrunken old nutsacks
and sagging breasts
depleted of sap
Your
body shutting down
As time turns
nimble hands
to clenched claws
One foot in the grave
you count
the seconds
and wait
while I watch
you
cling to
memory off
trembling flesh
and sweet insanity
of youth
On your wall
in black and white
you were once young
and proud
but alas
Life is Life
Death is cruel
And old age
just
plain
ugly
poem by Carsten Thomsen
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Murrow Turning Over In His Grave
All the sainted sinners
They pay handsomely
And eventually?
They make the weapons
And they run the prisons
And they sell the justice
Cause being guilty is
Just good business
And well be standing on
The borderline
Aint no one there gonna
Stop it now
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna turn wild
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna run wild
Half-closed eyes
And the countrys deadly
Do you feel the ooze as your brain drains out
From your pneumatic drills and sharpening knives
Blood in the sky
Are you dead or alive?
All the restless people and the bitter green
Well it fakes this gold, makes the spirit mean
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna turn wild
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna run wild
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hound Of Bloody Night
There were a few villagers walking around at night
They heard a Howl from the Bloody Night Woods
They had no clue what could have made such a dreadful, shuddering shriek.
But as soon as they could realize what it was
It was too late.
A few days later the remaining villagers found the last remains the ignorant villagers.
The town sheriff said a few words of prayer to the remains of the young man at the looks of it. Then to the young baby. And last the priest.
As soon as they realized it was getting dark the last of the people who stayed and were possibly the family of the people were then gone as well for they didn’t here the howl.
poem by Nico Janik
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