In Memory of Jane Fraser
When snow like sheep lay in the fold
And wind went begging at each door,
And the far hills were blue with cold,
And a cloud shroud lay on the moor,
She kept the siege. And every day
We watched her brooding over death
Like a strong bird above its prey.
The room filled with the kettle's breath.
Damp curtains glued against the pane
Sealed time away. Her body froze
As if to freeze us all, and chain
Creation to a stunned repose.
She died before the world could stir.
In March the ice unloosed the brook
And water ruffled the sun's hair.
Dead cones upon the alder shook.
poem by Geoffrey Hill
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Desolate
From the sad eaves the drip-drop of the rain!
The water washing at the latchel door;
A slow step plashing by upon the moor;
A single bleat far from the famished fold;
The clicking of an embered hearth and cold;
The rainy Robin tic-tac at the pane.
'So as it is with thee
Is it with me,
So as it is and it used not to be,
With thee used not to be,
Nor me.'
So singeth Robin on the willow tree,
The rainy robin tic-tac at the pane.
Here in this breast all day
The fire is dim and low,
Within I care not to stay,
Without I care not to go.
A sadness ever sings
Of unforgotten things,
And the bird of love is patting at the pane;
But the wintry water deepens at the door,
And a step is plashing by upon the moor
Into the dark upon the darkening moor,
And alas, alas, the drip-drop of the rain!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Tei ('Demirifa due')
'Demirifa due'
Your died on the 3rd of March 2002;
And was buried on the 16th of March 2002,
But what is the independence of man when death calls? !
Tei, 'demirifa due';
You were with me on Friday the 1st of March 2002,
Then on Sunday the 3rd of March 2002 i heard of your death;
For death took you away from me like a candle in the wind.
Of the Red Sea and the Black Sea,
Of the Blue Sea and theWhite Sea,
But the wind blew you away so soon into the world unknown;
Young and fresh and never married,
And of the tears of many who came to see your dead body.
I was short of wards when i heard the news,
Because we had an appointment to go out together on the 4th of March;
And being an artist like myself,
We planned to visit the ART CENTRE (in Accra-Ghana) to sell some works.
Tei, 'demirifa due';
You were knocked and run down by a tipper truck with double axles!
And death knocked at your door so early and you were gone too soon.
Wailing and gnashing of teeth,
Your candle died out so soon in the wind;
And this sad note will be remembered always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Coming Of War
Strong from the hills it comes, and flowing
rivers;
Swift from the waters of the rising seas;
Swift on the chilling heart that waits and quivers
With a terror of hideousies.
Behind grey mist it comes, and creeping cloud
That licks the fading earth with foetid breath.
From plains it comes, and silent lakes – a shroud
That holds unloosed the damned brigades of
death.
It sweeps and passes. Everything is dead-
Broken with foulness-ravished as it bled!
A blow, a weeping! Then a silence lies.
Faint bells low-tinkling from the bloody sod
Rise from the depths of heart, and touch the skies,
And murmur at the very stairs of God.
poem by Leon Gellert
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The Voice
From our low seat beside the fire
Where we have dozed and dreamed, and watched the glow
Or raked the ashes, stooping so
We scarcely saw the sun and rain
Through the small curtained window-pane,
Or looked much higher
Than this same quiet red or burned-out fire,
Tonight we heard a call,
A voice on the sharp air,
And felt a breath stirring our hair,
A flame within us. Something swift and tall
Swept in and out and that was all.
Was it a bright or a dark angel? Who can know?
It made no mark upon the snow;
But suddenly, in passing, snapped the chain,
Unbarred, flung wide the door
Which will not shut again:
And so we cannot sit here any more.
We must arise and go.
The world is cold without
And dark and hedged about
With mystery and enmity and doubt,
But we must go,
Though yet we do not know
Who called, or what marks we shall leave upon the snow.
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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A Winter Night
My window-pane is starred with frost,
The world is bitter cold to-night,
The moon is cruel, and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite.
God pity all the homeless ones,
The beggars pacing to and fro,
God pity all the poor to-night
Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.
My room is like a bit of June,
Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,
But somewhere, like a homeless child,
My heart is crying in the cold.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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Death. A Dialogue
Soul.
'TIS a sad Land, that in one day
Hath dull'd thee thus ; when death shall freeze
Thy blood to ice, and thou must stay
Tenant for years, and centuries ;
How wilt thou brook't ?
Body.
I cannot tell ;
But if all sense wings not with thee,
And something still be left the dead,
I'll wish my curtains off, to free
Me from so dark and sad a bed :
A nest of nights, a gloomy sphere,
Where shadows thicken, and the cloud
Sits on the sun's brow all the year,
And nothing moves without a shroud.
Soul.
'Tis so : but as thou saw'st that night
We travail'd in, our first attempts
Were dull and blind, but custom straight
Our fears and falls brought to contempt :
Then, when the ghastly twelve was past,
We breath'd still for a blushing East,
And bade the lazy sun make haste,
And on sure hopes, though long, did feast.
But when we saw the clouds to crack,
And in those crannies light appear'd,
We thought the day then was not slack,
And pleas'd ourselves with what we fear'd.
Just so it is in death. But thou
Shalt in thy mother's bosom sleep,
Whilst I each minute groan to know
How near Redemption creeps.
Then shall wee meet to mix again, and met,
'Tis last good-night ; our Sun shall never set.
JOB, CAP. IO. VER. 21, 22.
Before I go whence I shall not return, even to the
land of darkness, and the shadow of death ;
A Land of darkness, as darkness itself, and of the
shadow of death, without any order, and where the
light is as darkness.
poem by Henry Vaughan
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The Death of the Old Mendicant
There was a rich old gentleman
Lived on a lonely moor in Switzerland,
And he was very hard to the wandering poor,
'Tis said he never lodged nor served them at his door.
'Twas on a stormy night, and Boreas blew a bitter blast,
And the snowflakes they fell thick and fast,
When a poor old mendicant, tired and footsore,
Who had travelled that day fifteen miles and more,
Knocked loudly at the rich man's door.
The rich man was in his parlour counting his gold,
And he ran to the door to see who was so bold,
And there he saw the mendicant shivering with the cold.
Then the mendicant unto him said,
My dear sir, be not afraid,
Pray give me lodgings for the night,
And heaven will your love requite;
Have pity on me, for I am tired and footsore,
I have travelled fifteen miles to-day and more.
Begone! you vagabond, from my door!
I never give lodgings to the poor;
So be off, take to your heels and run,
Or else I'll shoot you with my gun!
Now do not think I'm making fun;
Do you hear, old beggar, what I say?
Now be quick! and go away.
Have mercy, sir, I cannot go,
For I shall perish in the snow;
Oh! for heaven's sake, be not so hard
And God will your love reward.
My limbs are tired, I cannot go away,
Oh! be so kind as let me stay.
'Twas vain! the rich man said, I shan't,
And shut his door on the mendicant,
And said, That is the way I'll serve the poor
While I live on this lonely moor.
Then the old mendicant did go away,
And, murmuring to himself, did say,
Oh, woe's me that ever I was born!
Oh, God, protect me from the storm!
My feeble limbs refuse to go,
And my poor heart does break with woe.
Then he lay down and died among the snow.
He was found by the rich man's shepherd next day,
While he was searching for sheep that had gone astray;
And he was struck with fear and woe
To see the body lying dead among the snow.
So the shepherd ran home and told his master
About the very sad disaster;
That he had found a dead body in the snow,
But whose it was he did not know.
Then the rich man ordered the body to be brought to his house
And to be instantly dressed by his loving spouse,
For his conscience smote him with fear and woe,
When he heard of the old mendicant being found dead in the snow.
So the poor old mendicant was buried without delay
In a very respectable way,
And from that very day the rich man was kind to the poor
And never turned any one away from his door.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Cold Snow Fall
The snow fall this year will be cold.
How will the homeless surive;
living on your doorstep,
or in your garden?
They will trudge through the snow,
their feet getting wet.
Their hands getting frostbite.
Their lips turning blue.
The snow fall this year will be cold.
Whining for food at your door.
Limping and shivering from the cold.
Why should they be treated like this?
The strays will try to do what they can to surive;
eating leftovers,
scrounging on the bins,
being swept away with a broom.
The snow fall this year will be cold.
You'll be at home,
getting warm by the fire,
opening gifts.
Your door is shut,
the curtains are drawn.
You have no clue what is going on outside,
in the cold cruel world.
poem by Scarlet Outlaw
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Oh, Ye Dead!
Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead! whom we know by the light you give
From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live,
Why leave you thus your graves,
In far off fields and waves,
Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,
To haunt this spot where all
Those eyes that wept your fall,
And the hearts that wail'd you, like your own, lie dead?
It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;
And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone;
But still thus even in death,
So sweet the living breath
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er,
That ere, condemn'd, we go
To freeze 'mid Hecla's snow,
We would taste it a while, and think we live once more!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Snowpowder
Snowpowder sprinkled in my hair
I reach for her, but she’s not there.
Her soft golden hair, no longer by my side,
her emerald eyes, that for me were blind.
Deep pools of green, I can’t deny.
Her skis are gone, the track is fresh,
the first ripples of pain, stir beneath my breast.
From this moment forth, I’ll know no rest.
A single tear lies upon my cheek
A silver pear; a glistening streak
My heart is broken, I cannot speak.
I can see her face within the mist
still see her smile
that from enjoyment grew
still see the pleasure
within her eyes, that I once knew.
I can see the movement of her lips
those tender lips when she spoke to me
the feel of them that set me free.
I hear her laughter on the wind
a honey sweet voice like morning dew.
So clear and still hanging on the breeze
it stirs my heart, sucks forth my breath.
Snowpowder sprinkled in my hair
Desperation, Grief, Despair.
A silent cry an inward tear
a choked-up so bursting from within
a heart-reaching moan
that split the air.
My hand she took in a last embrace
with a parting kiss she sealed my fate
my body rocks, now convulsively shakes.
The sun is bright now, sky cream white blue
but my heart is cold still, dead through you.
Our love was strong once wild and free.
Like a flower growing in scorching desert sands
the fragrance of it, captivated me.
The beauty withers
Its time is past.
The seeds are sown
Some may last.
Alone in the snow
This life I part.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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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 Mother's Soul
When the moon was horned the mother died,
And the child pulled at her hand and knee,
And he rubbed her cheek and loudly cried:
'O mother, arise, give bread to me!'
But the pine tree bent its head,
And the wind at the door-post said:
'O child, thy mother is dead !'
The sun set his loom to weave the day;
The frost bit sharp like a silent cur;
The child by her pillow paused in his play:
'Mother, build up the sweet fire of fir !'
But the fir tree shook its cones,
And loud cried the pitiful stones:
'Wolf Death has thy mother's bones!'
They bore the mother out on her bier;
Their tears made warm her breast and shroud;
The smiling child at her head stood near;
And the long, white tapers shook and bowed,
And said with their tongues of gold,
To the ice lumps of the grave mold:
'How heavy are ye and cold!'
They buried the mother; to the feast
They flocked with the beaks of unclean crows.
The wind came up from the red-eyed east
And bore in its arms the chill, soft snows.
They said to each other: 'Sere
Are the hearts the mother held dear;
Forgotten, her babe plays here!'
The child with the tender snowflakes played,
And the wind on its fingers twined his hair;
And still by the tall, brown grave he stayed,
Alone in the churchyard lean and bare.
The sods on the high grave cried
To the mother's white breast inside:
'Lie still; in thy deep rest bide!'
Her breast lay still like a long-chilled stone,
Her soul was out on the bleak, grey day;
She saw her child by the grave alone,
With the sods and snow and wind at play.
Said the sharp lips of the rush,
'Red as thy roses,O bush,
With anger the dead can blush !'
A butterfly to the child's breast flew,*
Fluttered its wings on his sweet, round cheek,
Danced by his fingers, small, cold and blue.
The sun strode down past the mountain peak.
The butterfly whispered low
To the child: 'Babe, follow me; know,
Cold is the earth here below.'
The butterfly flew; followed the child,
Lured by the snowy torch of its wings;
The wind sighed after them soft and wild
Till the stars wedded night with golden rings
Till the frost upreared its head,
And the ground to it groaned and said:
'The feet of the child are lead!'
The child's head drooped to the brown, sere mold,
On the crackling cones his white breast lay;
The butterfly touched the locks of gold,
The soul of the child sprang from its clay.
The moon to the pine tree stole,
And silver-lipped, said to its bole:
'How strong is the mother's soul !'
The wings of the butterfly grew out
To the mother's arms, long, soft and white;
She folded them warm her babe about,
She kissed his lips into berries bright,
She warmed his soul on her breast;
And the east called out to the west:
'Now the mother's soul will rest!'
Under the roof where the burial feast
Was heavy with meat and red with wine,
Each crossed himself as out of the east
A strange wind swept over oak and pine.
The trees to the home-roof said:
' 'Tis but the airy rush and tread
Of angels greeting thy dead.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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August Moonrise
The sun was gone, and the moon was coming
Over the blue Connecticut hills;
The west was rosy, the east was flushed,
And over my head the swallows rushed
This way and that, with changeful wills.
I heard them twitter and watched them dart
Now together and now apart
Like dark petals blown from a tree;
The maples stamped against the west
Were black and stately and full of rest,
And the hazy orange moon grew up
And slowly changed to yellow gold
While the hills were darkened, fold on fold
To a deeper blue than a flower could hold.
Down the hill I went, and then
I forgot the ways of men,
For night-scents, heady, and damp and cool
Wakened ecstasy in me
On the brink of a shining pool.
O Beauty, out of many a cup
You have made me drunk and wild
Ever since I was a child,
But when have I been sure as now
That no bitterness can bend
And no sorrow wholly bow
One who loves you to the end?
And though I must give my breath
And my laughter all to death,
And my eyes through which joy came,
And my heart, a wavering flame;
If all must leave me and go back
Along a blind and fearful track
So that you can make anew,
Fusing with intenser fire,
Something nearer your desire;
If my soul must go alone
Through a cold infinity,
Or even if it vanish, too,
Beauty, I have worshipped you.
Let this single hour atone
For the theft of all of me.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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for Juvy...
Juvy is a thirsty woman
she is thirty, a widow for three years now
her husband died on a car accident
leaving her with
a daughter
tonight she cannot sleep
her breasts are making fire
she goes out of the house
and finds the brook nearby outside the fence
of her house
when she gets there
it is cold and dark but her breasts are glowing like cinders
she undresses herself
and goes into the water
her breasts are playful on the ripples of the water
she goes deeper
and dives
opens her eyes looking for happiness
she opens her mouth
drinks the fresh water of the brook
she is thirsty and wants to drink
everything
satisfied for now
she goes out of the water
dresses herself again
under the moon
she goes home
opens the door of her room
and with her hair still wait
she lays in bed and begins to sleep
the picture of her husband
is no longer
on top of the table
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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for Juvy...(a little correction)
Juvy is a thirsty woman
she is thirty, a widow for three years now
her husband died on a car accident
leaving her with
a daughter
tonight she cannot sleep
her breasts are making fire
she goes out of the house
and finds the brook nearby outside the fence
when she gets there
it is cold and dark but her breasts are glowing like cinders
she undresses herself
and goes into the water
her breasts are playful on the ripples of the water
she goes deeper
and dives
opens her eyes looking for happiness
she opens her mouth
drinks the fresh water of the brook
she is thirsty and wants to drink
everything
satisfied for now
she goes out of the water
dresses herself again
under the moon
she goes home
opens the door of her room
and with her hair still wet
she lays in bed and begins to sleep
the picture of her husband
is no longer
on top of the table
her decision is to empty
her past and free it from dusts.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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New York Winter Mornings
New York winter mornings,
bitter, dark, wet.
I trudge through the snow,
my collar turned to the cold and damp.
A lock of hair peeks out of my hat, and dances with the wind,
I shove it back in, and struggle on.
Children play in the snow, throwing snowballs at each other,
laughing, skipping, their cheeks flushed.
I look up at the skyline,
The Empire State Building standing strong,
dark against the grey sky.
I get to my apartment,
stamp the snow from my boots and unlock the door,
hang up my coat.
I look out of the window, the snow is falling again.
Weather report says there's more on the way.
A New York winter morning.
poem by Zaila Ayre
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Could It Be The Wind? (For Dave)
is it then the wind,
that rattles the pane?
causing the candle to flicker,
the curtains to walk?
could it be the wind,
making shapes of shadow?
and that long shaking moan
you feel in your bones?
the wind that whispers
in voices almost remembered.
that tugs at the door
to your forbidden room?
that taste of blackness
from an empty cup?
could it be the wind,
or something more?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Movement Of The Soul
'All the passions can be reduced to four: joy, hope, fear, and grief.
These four are so closely connected that, when one is controlled,
the others all obey. Consequently they can be reduced to one: joy.
And desire is the movement of the soul seeking joy.'
Thomas Merton, The Ascent to Truth
Fear
is knowing
that the dark cloud
bearing down
on thrashing trees,
sending calling birds
to awkwardly flee,
holds both
life
and death,
but not knowing
which it will be.
Fear
can lead to grief
when tumors increase.
Blood grows
thick
until, together
at last, we stand
coffin-side
and wonder
why.
This is the line that splits heaven from hell.
We comb his hair
and shave his face,
carefully fold a rosary
into his cold hands,
and wonder that
his chest is
so still.
But his eyes are safely
sealed against the
terror of the grave,
so we lay him to rest
and slowly go
our separate ways
Remember
those cold March days
when we stood, our
backs to the rising sun?
Too bright
to see, the sun
strokes us
with a lover's warmth,
and rekindles in us
life's desire.
Thus will it always be.
Death can never win
though his illusion is strong.
The mortal body succumbs
but the soul ascends,
like birds, joyfully rising
to the morning sun.
poem by Steven Federle
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Changing Time
THE cloud looked in at the window,
And said to the day, 'Be dark!'
And the roguish rain tapped hard on the pane,
To stifle the song of the lark.
The wind sprang up in the tree tops
And shrieked with a voice of death,
But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees,
Was touched with a violet's breath.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Beast Of Codden Moor
fear rides the beast of codden moor
the men are hunting the beast of
codden moor
it run, s as fast as legs will carry
it, s breath steam, s on air so crisp
it, s heart beats a tempo of it, s own
faster faster faster faster faster
you beast of codden moor
but men ride horse, s fast as wind
to catch a beast on codden moor
that falls and tumbles through the snow
upon codden moor
it raises a head of strengh and beauty
a horn of bone lies within the head
of a beast of codden moor
death comes quick as spears stab down
as swords swish as they find virgin flesh
on this beast of codden moor
poem by Graham Russell
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