Commandant Gideon Scheepers
Not only was he assassinated
as a ill man captured in the field
by a British firing squad
but was buried in the ground
in a grave unmarked
planted without a coffin,
buried like rubbish,
or rotting dead meat,
like weed
without anyone heeding
where they laid him down.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
Commandant Gideon Scheepers
They tried to send him to hell,
as if he was one of them,
a traitor, a rebel.
The British killed a captured ill man,
that they came across in the veldt
without decency, or any military law being honoured.
They shot a Boer commandant through the heart
and without a funeral note,
they hurried, to get him buried.
A brave man devoted
to his country, to his God,
whose burial place was not noted.
Turning sod after sod
with spades, they dumped him
in a unmarked grave
in the dead of night
without using light
they threw ground upon his chest,
laid him to rest without any honour
and left him alone
without a marking stone.
[References: The rank of Commandant is equivalent to that of Lieutenant Colonel. The heroic story of Gideon Scheepers during the second Anglo-Boer war, who was captured while being ill in the veldt as a normal combatant, but treated like a rebel and shot by the British, who buried him in a unmarked hole in the ground.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Gideon Scheepers (Terzanelle)
To form a cairn, I write these words about a remarkable man,
commandant Gideon Scheepers, executed in gross neglect
who was seen by the British as a rebel and partisan
and they treated him without any decency or respect
when in the veldt they captured an ill man as a prisoner of war.
Commandant Gideon Scheepers, executed in gross neglect
proofed himself at the battle of Magersfontein before
gathering more men, blowing away train tracks,
when in the veldt they captured an ill man as a prisoner of war
who acted against armed blacks
who stopped them from pillaging farms, raping, killing and looting,
gathering more men, blowing away train tracks,
the British executed him, with a firing squad shooting
a brave man, who acted fearless
who stopped them from pillaging farms, raping, killing and looting
and they buried him in an unmarked grave, rather careless.
To form a cairn I write these words about a remarkable man,
a brave man, who acted fearless
who was seen by the British as a rebel and partisan.
[References: The rank of Commandant is equivalent to that of Lieutenant Colonel. The heroic story of Gideon Scheepers during the second Anglo-Boer war, who was captured while being ill in the veldt as a normal combatant, but treated like a rebel and shot by the British, who buried him in a unmarked hole in the ground.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,--
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring:
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But left him alone with his glory.
poem by Charles Wolfe
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A Song For My Funeral
A Song For My Funeral
when they buried him
a young boy
in a cardboard box
somewhere in the green mountain
there was a song nobody knew
there was a song
unknown and unsung
I know the song
it has been silent for many years
buried in an unmarked grave
a dead boy does not age
I shall be writing the song
for my funeral to come
it will be there
for you to sing
wherever you are
Suchoon Mo
- Lucid Rhythms, issue 2, June 2008 -
poem by Suchoon Mo_
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As At Thy Portals Also Death
AS at thy portals also death,
Entering thy sovereign, dim, illimitable grounds,
To memories of my mother, to the divine blending, maternity,
To her, buried and gone, yet buried not, gone not from me,
(I see again the calm benignant face fresh and beautiful still,
I sit by the form in the coffin,
I kiss and kiss convulsively again the sweet old lips, the cheeks,
the closed eyes in the coffin;)
To her, the ideal woman, practical, spiritual, of all of earth, life,
love, to me the best,
I grave a monumental line, before I go, amid these songs,
And set a tombstone here. 10
poem by Walt Whitman
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The Easter Rising
eiri amach na casca
(the Easter rising)
The Proclamation had met with silence,
he must have known the fight was lost,
But, Connolly, faithful to the Cause,
Was accepting of its cost.
They took the Green, The inns of Court,
the Post on Sackville Street
De Valera stood at Bolandʼ s mill
the place where five roads meet.
Their commander, Pearse, a scholar,
Apportioned his menʼ s lives,
To garrison each strong point
Till the British would arrive.
Their tactics were pure suicide-
They could not hope to stand,
But their strategy was brilliant
Meant to rouse a sleeping land.
Sure to die of a snipers bullet-
Or a British firing squad
These unabashed Republicans
Held out against long odds..
Bloodied by the Rebel guns,
The foe paid dear for ground
The general post office was in flames
as their gunboats shelled our town.
The week crawled past and Dublin burned
The post Office glowed White hot
Pearse watched his troop dwindle and fade.
Faint from shell and shock..
They gave up to be crucified
In Imperial British fashion
And by dying saved their country.
Their deaths brought her resurrection.
The British with their firing squad
Could ready, aim and fire.
The Brotherhood by dying
Could persuade, convince, inspire
From the graves of these patriot men
Was an Irish nation grown.
Their struggle at the post office
Still captured in itsʼ stone.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Every pessimist who ever lived has been buried in an unmarked grave. Tomorrow has always been better than today, and it always will be.
quote by Paul Harvey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Unmarked Grave
There are mourners beside an unmarked grave
witness how quietly they all there do behave.
All shedding silent tears for one they’ve lost
perhaps some loved one in this way to accost.
It seems uncertain if anyone about really knows
who is buried there beneath the grass that grows
at this distant lonely place away from all the rest
perhaps it was the deceased person’s last bequest.
There isn’t any indication to say when, where or how the person died
just these mourners that have come here it seems from far and wide
to pay their solemn respects to one for which only they all know
perhaps it’s the least thing to the departed one they now do owe.
The buried person must have left a strong impression in everyone’s mind
and when alive would have been an influence of some remarkable kind.
There’s no real telling just what the circumstances might then have been
but judging from the expression on all their faces one of deep loss is seen.
The flowers brought by all the mourners there
and placed on the ground at their feet where
they formed a cross inside a circle of distinction
to commemorate the passing with a benediction.
------------------
poem by George Krokos
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Pet Sematary
Under the arc of a weather stain boards
Ancient goblins, and warlords
Come out of the ground, not making a sound.
The smell of death is all around,
And the night when the cold wind blows,
No one cares, nobody knows
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary!
I don't want to live my life again!
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary!
I don't want to live my life again!
Follow Victor to the sacred place,
This ain't a dream, I can't escape.
Molars and fangs, the clicking of bones,
Spirits moaning among the tombstones
And the night, when the moon is bright,
Someone cries, something ain't right.
CHORUS
The moon is full, the air is still,
All of a sudden I feel a chill,
Victor is grinning, flesh rotting away,
Skeletons dance, I curse this day
And the night when the wolves cry out,
Listen close and you can hear me shout.
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary!
I don't want to live my life again!
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary!
I don't want to live my life again, oh no, oh no!
I don't want to live my life again, oh no, oh oh!
I don't want to live my life again, oh no no no!
I don't want to live my life again, oh oh!!!!
song performed by by Rammstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pet Cemetery
Under the arc of a weather stain boards,
Ancient goblins, and warlords,
Come out of the ground, not making a sound,
The smell of death is all around,
And the night when the cold wind blows, No one cares, nobody knows.
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary,
I don't want to live my life again.
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary,
I don't want to live my life again.
Follow Victor to the sacred place,
This ain't a dream, I can't escape,
Molars and fangs, the clicking of bones,
Spirits moaning among the tombstones,
And the night, when the moon is bright,
Someone cries, something ain't right.
CHORUS
The moon is full, the air is still,
All of a sudden I feel a chill,
Victor is grinning, flesh rotting away,
Skeletons dancee, I curse this day,
And the night when the wolves cry out,
Listen close and you can hear me shout.
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary,
I don't want to live my life again.
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary,
I don't want to live my life again, oh no, oh no
I don't want to live my life again, oh no, oh oh,
I don't want to live my life again, oh no no no
I don't want to live my life again, oh oh
song performed by by Ramones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Concubine
Chen Xiao Fei while the sun does shine
Was taken as the Emperor's concubine,
Just one of a hundred from the village Yang Ping
And chosen by the placing of a bright gold ring.
The Emperor's minions took her by the hand
And led her far away from the life she'd planned,
Her tears flew wide as she said zy jian
To the Ma ma, signing her away with a pen.
She said farewell to her friends from the school
Then they bathed her well in a rose-petalled pool,
They dressed her in the silks of a young girl's dream
And gave her to the Emperor, at just fourteen.
She lodged with the other of his concubines
Who taught her the rules she must follow all times
She never must climb in the top of his bed
But crawl beneath the sheet from his feet to his head.
She was told of the colours that she must not wear
And she came and she went, but by a side door
She was low in the rank of his concubines
And waited on him calling her, the very first time.
But once he had ravaged her virginity
She was told to leave his bed, but immediately,
For all of his consorts waited in a line
For the glory of a moment as his concubine.
They were guarded by the eunuchs of the Emperor's court
Who dallied with the concubines, until they were caught,
Then their heads were toppled by a sharp steel blade
And buried in the field where their sisters were laid.
But the news came down, and the news was bleak
That the Emperor was dead, had died in his sleep
And the Empress ordered that Chen Xiao Fei
Would be buried standing up, in the Emperor's grave.
She begged and she pleaded with the Emperor's wife
But consorts were needed in the afterlife,
She could choose to be drowned in the well by the park,
Or hang herself there, with a bright silk scarf.
She picked out a scarf to be hung, Xiao Fei
Along with the others, at dawn the next day,
And they all were buried by the eunuch guard
In a line, in a field by the Palace's yard.
And now as you pass by a field, weed-grown
There's barely a glimpse of a weather-worn stone,
All that is left of the girl sent away
For the lust of an Emperor, Chen Xiao Fei.
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Requiem Éire
There is a place not far from Yeats' Tower.
No life grows there, no lively tune, nor poets power
Has ever rang of this land. Yet here I may recall,
In remembrance, Roscommon; land of the funeral pall.
Headstones have they planted in every field,
Springing forth from grey faced loins, and thus a graveyard yield.
The dead outnumber the living, the youth long gone from the yard.
Inevitably interred in the adjoining garden, they stamped down hard.
There was a wedding there amongst the old dying firs.
The bride wore white, with flowers from a broken wreath.
A funeral plot the wedding gift- a family grave.
Life was buried there; man, woman and unborn child.
What they had, they gave,
And into the ground they piled.
poem by Keith Moynihan O' Brien
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Gideon Scheepers
There’s a Boer commandant
that proofs himself at Magersfontein
and help to beat the British there
and at Paardeberg on horseback,
rides right through them
and they cannot touch him.
When his commando
enters the Cape Colony
rail tracts are blown away
and British trains stand and wait
and there are many Cape Boers
that joins him
to fight against
the overwhelming British might.
The British give guns
to the black population
and send them to farmsteads
to murder women and children
and to rape
and to Gideon Scheepers it’s more than enough
and it hits him like a hammer blow
and every black man
that his commando catches carrying a firearm
is hanged.
Then it happens
that the British find Gideon Scheepers
lying ill in the field
and they execute him
and somewhere in the field
he is pushed into an unmarked grave
and even today
nobody knows where
Gideon Scheepers lies.
[References: The rank of Commandant is equivalent to that of Lieutenant-Colonel. The heroic story of Gideon Scheepers during the second Anglo-Boer war.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Dead Meat
The hangmans noose wont get me
Gas chambers never stress me
The can line me up against the wall
No firing squad will make me
Confess or even break me
Ill stand alone or not at all
I will not obey
I will not betray
I will not give in
Not while Im living
No surrender
We never will surrender
We are all dead meat
Cut us, watch us bleed
No shackles made will chain me
No endless pain will change me
The scars will testify this all
No solitary confinement
Will break my strong resignment
Ill die before I will conform
I will not obey
I will not betray
I will not give in
Not while Im living
No surrender
Therell never be surrender
We are all dead meat
Cut us, watch us bleed
Read in my obituary
Defiance breeds victory
No cage they make can hold me
No law enforced controls me
No trap thats sprung stops me for long
No prison cell contains me
No snare they set will claim me
Relentlessly Ill fight them all
I will not obey
I will not betray
I will not give in
Not while Im living
No surrender
We never will
Be driven asunder
No surrender
We never will
Raise the white flag
We are all dead meat
Cut us, watch us bleed
We are all dead meat
Cut us, watch us bleed
Indoctrination
Will never
Suppress me
Theyre seriously mistaken
Cause Ill take them
Down with me
And just before theyre finished
Theyll scream along with me
We are all dead meat
song performed by by Judas Priest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The grave inside my mind
I made a grave inside my mind
The unknown tombstone in deserted place
Covered the soil of forgotten dreams
It is hidden from merciless eyes of law
My dark ink laid in white coffin
Whispering the song of restless feeling
I've buried the thought under my mind
That ugly forbidden burning desire
It should be a time to say goodbye
But you still haunt my heart
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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On the Sepulchre of our Lord
Here, where our Lord once laid his Head,
Now the grave lies buried.
poem by Richard Crashaw
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The War Game
I am buried by time,
I am buried by love;
Like life from Herat in Afghanistan.
I am buried by the heat,
I am buried by the cold,
I am buried by the wings of nature!
Like life from Herat in Afghanistan.
Keep talking it,
Keep saying it,
Keep doing it,
Keep walking it,
Keep dancing it,
Keep swinging it,
Keep climbing it,
Keep trying it,
Keep asking it,
Keep working it,
Keep moving it,
Keep flying it,
Keep acting it,
All in the time frame to be buried;
Like the War Game in Afghanistan.
Buried under the nature of things,
With bombs exploding from left and right;
Like a message from Herat in Afghanistan.
The War Game,
All in a time frame to be buried;
Keep rolling it,
Keep changing it,
Keep trading it,
Keep building it,
Keep covering it,
Keep painting it,
Keep writing it,
Keep blocking it,
Keep cookin it,
Keep posting it,
Keep accepting it,
Keep driving it,
Keep bombing it,
Keep squeezing it,
Like the war game in Afghanistan.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Satin In A Coffin
You were laying on the carpet
like you're satin in a coffin.
You said, "Do you believe what you're sayin'?"
Yeah right now, but not that often.
Are you dead or are you sleepin'?
Are you dead or are you sleepin'?
Are you dead or are you sleepin'?
God I sure hope you are dead.
Well you disappeared so often
like you dissolved into coffee.
Are you here right now
or are there probably fossils under your meat?
Are you dead or are you sleepin'?
Are you dead or are you sleepin'?
Are you dead or are you sleepin'?
God I sure hope you are dead.
Now the blow's been softened,
since the air we breathe's our coffin.
Well now the blow's been softened,
since the ocean is our coffin.
Often times you know our laughter
is your coffin ever after.
And you know the blow's been softened,
since the world is our coffin.
Well now the blow's been softened
since we are our own damn coffins.
Well everybody's talkin' about their short lists.
Everybody's talkin' about death.
You were laying on the carpet
like you're satin in a coffin.
You said, "Do you believe what you're sayin'?"
Yeah right now, but not that often.
Are you dead or are you sleepin'?
Are you dead or are you sleepin'?
Are you dead or are you sleepin'?
God, I sure hope you are dead.
song performed by by Modest Mouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Weed
There was an old woman
that planted a garden.
And in the garden
there grew a weed.
The weed grew next to
a beautiful flower.
The flower had grown
from a tiny seed.
The weed was strong
and would not bend.
The wind did blow
and it did send
the seeds from the flower
into the air.
They circled around
and landed where
the weed was growing
next to the flower.
Soon the weed was
surrounded by flowers.
It loved where it was
and looked by the hours
at all of the beautiful
colorful flowers.
The old woman who planted
the garden one day
decided that she would
make a bouquet.
She went to the garden
to cut the flowers.
But when she got there
down came the showers.
The raindrops that fell
made the weed shine
which made the old woman
change her mind.
She left them alone
in her garden and knew
that the weed belonged
with the flowers that grew.
She'd planted the flowers.
God planted the weed.
The garden was perfect.
No bouquet did she need.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Troth with the Dead
The moon is broken in twain, and half a moon
Before me lies on the still, pale floor of the sky;
The other half of the broken coin of troth
Is buried away in the dark, where the still dead lie.
They buried her half in the grave when they laid her away;
I had pushed it gently in among the thick of her hair
Where it gathered towards the plait, on that very last day;
And like a moon in secret it is shining there.
My half shines in the sky, for a general sign
Of the troth with the dead I pledged myself to keep;
Turning its broken edge to the dark, it shines indeed
Like the sign of a lover who turns to the dark of sleep.
Against my heart the inviolate sleep breaks still
In darkened waves whose breaking echoes o’er
The wondering world of my wakeful day, till I’m lost
In the midst of the places I knew so well before.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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