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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Related quotes
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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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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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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Ancestral Woman
I was never child
My maternal granny called me an old, old soul
I seen time come and go
I gave birth to giving birth
Ain’t nothin I don’t know
The sun is my shade I pull it down to allow darkness and light
To give birth to the same day, the eternal now
Then, you ask me, as woman
Then, you ask me, as a colored woman
Then, you ask me, as a female
Then, you ask me, as a black female
Then, you ask me, as a Mother
Then, you ask me, as the epitome of androgeny
What is my contribution, evolution ain’t as old
I been in the grave, beyond the grave
I been the grave, I had to brave the newness of oldness
I remember when silence was communication
Being blind the revelation
Not knowing the greatest education
Nothingness the only information
I am the past, my innateness the futre
My being the immediate now
I am the ancient androgenous embryo
I render gender apropos
I survived domestice violence and sexual abuse
Being told I am of no use
Cause I won’t accept yo validation
As my self-reaization
Then, you ask me, as a woman
Then, you ask me, as a colored woman
Then, you ask me, as a female
Then, you ask me, as a black female
Then, you ask me, as a Mother
Then, you ask me, as the epitome of androgeny
What is my contribution, evolution ain’t as old
I been the grave, beyond the grave
I been the grave, I had to brave the newness of oldness
How does it feel being a Woman
It feels like
I Am all, in all, sustain all, absolutely independent of all
My power never diminishes
Life never starts, never finishes
I come from The Woman we are
She is the ultimate extended family
There is only One Woman
She is the innate evidence exuding all women
My very composition is memories of being other women
I am made of every Woman
Then again, so is existence
I Am The Temple minus the veil
I, Am still waiting to exhale
Then, you ask me, as a woman
Then, you ask me, as a colored woman
Then, you ask me, as a female
Then, you ask me, as a black female
Then, you ask me, as a Mother
Then, you ask me, as the epitome of androgeny
What is my contribution, evolution ain’t as old
I been in the grave, beyond the grave, I been the grave
I had to brave the newness of oldness
Then, you ask me what, is my contribution
poem by Josephine DixonBanks
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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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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 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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Woman In Black
I knew the moment
I walked through that door
I felt so close to a burning sensation
It got so warm
As I moved across the floor
My body aching with anticipation
I saw a dark silhouette, at the table
I tried to talk, but I was unable
She drew me in right under her spell
I was hypnotized by the sudden temptation
Of that woman in black, shes a mystery
Shes everything a woman should be
Woman in black, shes got a hold on me
Shes in control, she wont set me free
She is a woman
Shes not a girl anymore
The kind that stirs up a young mans imagination
Shes dressed to kill
And Im so ready to fall
Into her world full of strange fascination
I see that dark silhouette, at the table
I cant resist, my bodys not able
She draws me in, but she teaches me well
I never need any explanation
From that woman in black, shes a mystery
Shes everything a woman should be
I said, woman in black, got a hold on me
Shes in control, she wont set me free
Ooh, woman in black
Its too late now
I cant turn back
cause Im a fool for that woman
Woman in black
Ooh, ooh, woman in black
Ooh, that woman in black, shes a mystery
Shes everything a woman should be
That woman in black, shes got a hold on me
Shes in control, she wont set me free
Shes my mysterious mistress
But she leaves me so helpless
My woman in black
Shes a dark senorita
My woman in black
No sunday school teacher
My woman in black
Were keeping it a secret
We meet in the night
Were partners in silence
Strangers in daylight
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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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The Three Concerned
The Man
He lies forgotten 'neath the watching skies,
the blood upon his bayonet scarlet bright;
the red moon shining in his glazed eyes,
the 'Last Post' crying, crying in the night.
The Woman
She proudly sits within her home of gloom,
and reads and reads his lines with wistful smile,
then, eyes aglisten, seeks the empty room
(and he within his bloody grave the while.)
The Child
His wooden war-horse stands beside his bed,
his tiny pillow holds a head of gold.
He dreams of all the things his father said,
he dreams of all the tales his father told.
poem by Leon Gellert
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He's Far From Dead
He's far from dead his heart is ticking
Although he looks like one near death
No he's very much alive and kicking
There's lots of living in him yet.
He may be in his early seventies
And he may look skinny, gray and pale
But looks can often be deceiving
And he's not ill though he looks frail.
He has a thing for younger women
And at them he never fails to smile
And they say he's such a lovely old chap
And they always buy into his guile.
A man is old when at women he stops looking
But to him that hardly does apply
And though he may look old, wrinkled and weary
He is not ready yet to die.
He fancies women than him decades younger
And women of his own age he ignore
One mature lady to him takes a fancy
But he feels she's too old for him at sixty four.
He may look old and on his last legs
With one foot almost in the grave
But looks in his case are deceiving
And for some-one else your pity save.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Shame On Humanity
'Pray God that you in next birth you remain childless'
The pain and agony was clearly seen on the villager's face
They had brought one old widow lady from the village
To her nephew's house when fell sick due to old age
The nephew shouted 'I don't know her please take back'
The villagers were shocked and taken a back
It was bolt from the blue and totally inhuman
He was directly descendent and related to old woman
We were all taken by surprise and lamented
He was unmoved and not in any way resented
It was an end of humanity and had lost all the relevance
He did not look back to old lady and left the place at once
I saw the death fear in old lady and just wept
She had given all her property to him and nothing was kept
It with only with one hope that he may take her care in old age
Where as he had inherited everything and now ended the bondage
The villagers were innocent and had brought lady in good faith
Now she was lying in taxi and waiting for last breath and death
I was watched her with so much of helplessness
The betrayal caused by nephew was clearly reflecting on face
The villagers provided her all relief by gracefully saying
'Remember almighty and wish that you have no such son staying away'
All people, who surrounded old woman, silently cursed
That nephew had no mercy at heart and failed to nurse
I came to know later on that old lady died on the way
But she had no remorse for her being pushed away
She had brought up that man when his parent had died
He was brought up with all the care but lastly he lied
What we comment on such behavior?
When person comes down so lower
Lower in thinking and with mean mentality
Certainly we can feel shame on humanity
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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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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Natalia’s Resurrection: Sonnet XX
Oh, pitiful awaking! What was Adrian's pleasure,
That it had earned for him such bitterness?
What his soul's pride that its new tender measure
Should find its echo in a dirge like this?
The chaunters chaunting slow were sable priests
Robed for a requiem; the laughters clear,
Women that wept; the untasted marriage feasts,
Death's banquet spread, and she upon the bier,
Natalia's self in her white robe of death,
Mourned by the hard eyes of unfriendly men,
And with them he, her husband, with set teeth
And visage pale which ne'er should smile again
In any welcome. Adrian neither moved
Nor spoke, but gazed upon the form he loved.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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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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The Garden-Chair
TWO PORTRAITS.
A PLEASANT picture, full of meanings deep,
Old age, calm sitting in the July sun,
On withered hands half-leaning--feeble hands,
That after their life-labors, light or hard,
Their girlish broideries, their marriage-ringed
Domestic duties, their sweet cradle cares,
Have dropped into the quiet-folded ease
Of fourscore years. How peacefully the eyes
Face us! Contented, unregretful eyes,
That carry in them the whole tale of life
With its one moral--'Thus all was--thus best.'
Eyes now so near unto their closing mild
They seem to pierce direct through all that maze,
As eyes immortal do.
Here--Youth. She stands
Under the roses, with elastic foot
Poised to step forward; eager-eyed, yet grave
Beneath the mystery of the unknown To-come,
Though longing for its coming. Firm prepared
(So say the lifted head and close, sweet mouth)
For any future: though the dreamy hope
Throned on her girlish forehead, whispers fond,
'Surely they err who say that life is hard;
Surely it shall not be with me as these.'
God knows: He only. And so best, dear child,
Thou woman-statured, sixteen-year-old child,
Meet bravely the impenetrable Dark
Under thy roses. Bud and blossom thou
Fearless as they--if thou art planted safe,
Whether for gathering or for withering, safe
In the King's garden.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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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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C. L. M.
In the dark womb where I began
My mother's life made me a man.
Through all the months of human birth
Her beauty fed my common earth.
I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir.
But through the death of some of her.
Down in the darkness of the grave
She cannot see the life she gave.
For all her love, she cannot tell
Whether I use it ill or well,
Nor knock at dusty doors to find
Her beauty dusty in the mind.
If the grave's gates could be undone,
She would not know her little son,
I am so grown. If we should meet
She would pass by me in the street,
Unless my soul's face let her see
My sense of what she did for me.
What have I done to keep in mind
My debt to her and womankind ?
What woman's happier life repays
Her for those months of wretched days ?
For all my rnouthless body leeched
Ere Birth's releasing hell was reached ?
What have I done, or tried, or said
In thanks to that dear woman dead ?
Men triumph over women still,
Men trample women's rights at will.
And man's lust roves the world untamed.
* • * •
O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.
poem by John Masefield (1902)
Submitted by anonym
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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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