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No posthumous gratitude

I had taken down addresses of the persons
Close to my father as he told in deathbed.
All were informed; none came to the funeral.
Yes, he was not there to note their absence.
10.11.2004

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Father Told

Father Told

i

Father told, ink filled pen causes writing
I poured ink into pen and started to write.

ii

Father told, the door if knocked
Some one or other will open that
I knocked at the door
From other side the door opened.

iii

Father advised me to walk carefully
I proceeded step by step
But I stumbled on the walking way
Father told, this is ornaments of walking path.

iv

Father asked to return back at practical world
From the world at poetic imagination
I returned back at practical world
And started to proceed
That walking path of mine followed me.

v

Father advised to read and learn
I read book and learnt
Also informed the neighbors
They learnt, taught and informed
Their surroundings.

vi

Father advised me to behave gently with all
I behaved gently with all, but
Some persons misbehaved with me
Father told me to be forgiving
So, I forgave them.

vii

Father told, open your incite, you will
Find everything is easy- straight and charming
No sooner I opened my incite
Infinite butterfly built their dwelling there.

viii

Through eye that you see
That is only present
Through mind that you see is past, present and future
I closed my eye and spread
I spread mind at wings of butterfly.

ix

Father told, every moment is under control of creature.
Even a leaf moves at his direction.
I listened, flying at sky as cloud
Falling in dropp as rain- bloomed as flower
And I extended over the air as aroma.

x

Father told, physique of creature dies, not soul
I close eye and become the king
Of far unknown kingdom.

xi

Father told, sun rises in the east
And sun sets in the west
I heard, saw and believed.

poem by Bongokobida Zakaria
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The parting of the partner.

I lost my dear wife at a tender age.
I collected addresses for funeral.
I conducted the cremation
I went to my village to be called on.
I made over things held by her.
I had been too busy to weep.
27.10.2004

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Keep Me Informed

Keep me informed,
When you think you see dawn.
And you are through with darkness
That supplied subdued restlessness.
And you wish to move on!
Yes...
Keep me informed.

Keep me informed,
When you're hopelessness has gone.
I will be there,
To chip aware what is left of your despair.
And you are prepared to sing songs!
Yes...
Please keep me informed.

Keep me informed,
If you feel you've been wronged.
With me I will help you undo...
Bitterness I have felt too!
And we will build a love...
Recognized and true.
Yes...
That is what we will do.
If you keep me informed.

Just keep me informed,
Take your time...
But don't take that time too long!
I've been searching for you.
You are someone who sees through...
Clouds you wish to lift!
And I am here,
To assist with the lifting of it!
Yes...
Keep me informed.
I know together we belong!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My Father-in-Law and I

MY father-in-law is a careworn man,
And a silent man is he;
But he summons a smile as well as he can
Whenever he meets with me.
The sign we make with a silent shake
That speaks of the days gone by—
Like men who meet at a funeral—
My father-in-law and I.

My father-in-law is a sober man
(And a virtuous man, I think);
But we spare a shilling whenever we can,
And we both drop in for a drink.
Our pints they fill, and we say, “Ah, well!”
With the sound of the world-old sigh—
Like the drink that comes after a funeral—
My father-in-law and I.

My father-in-law is a kindly man—
A domestic man is he.
He tries to look cheerful as well as he can
Whenever he meets with me.
But we stand and think till the second drink
In a silence that might imply
That we’d both get over a funeral,
My father-in-law and I.

poem by Henry Lawson
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My Niece – Marilese

As I grew I heard a lot about Marilese
I was informed that this was my Niece
Incredibly smart I was informed – this Niece of Mine

Never was I afforded the opportunity though
To better get to know her so
What no one knew - Except my Niece and me
Life is planned – One day we were destined to meet

One sunny day – my grannies unfortunate funeral
Our two souls connected
Completely unexpected

Completely flabbergasted was I
With this Niece of mine
So excited and impressed with this Niece of mine

For hours we could chat
About this and that
Completely subtracted from the reality around us

Grandfather told me I was not smart
Also told this girl – very smart
Yet we could click as easy as that

I don’t care who says what
This Niece of mine is very cool

Marilese – Thanks for the love in your heart
Maybe one-day I’ll be as smart
Thank you for sharing this talent of yours

It is your wisdom that I adore

poem by Michael Knight
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How important a woman is!

Visit a funeral where it was of a man.
Visit a funeral where it was of his wife.
Take attendance and count the mourners.
It will tell how important the woman had been.
19.01.2004

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The absence

Your presence has left,
Leaving in me an absence.
Your silence since leaving
Is causing disturbance.
The shadow behind your back
Show you to me in limelight.
You lure more by absence
With no cure for my penance.
05.08.2004

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Funeral Song

You told me the song to play at your funeral
As if I can think that far ahead
I haven't even held your hand
or kissed your face
ran my fingers through your hair
or trailed them down your chest
i've never looked in your eyes
and told you that i love you
your touch I've never felt
nor the warmth of your body on mine
But you told me the song to play at your funeral
A grand assumption don't you think

poem by Alien Girl
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Creativity/ Like My Father On His Deathbed

Poetry is not about words.
Poetry flows
from experiences that hover beyond words,
a shining memory sounding muffled
hidden behind a familiar door.

The words of a poem
are the funeral of my old father,
magnificent, feisty and watchful,
available to the last
through indefinable gestures
and a shining silence
existent somewhere else now
as poetry is, the real poem,
not the heavy coffin of the print.

Poetry pines for it’s lost world,
its hidden home,
like a swan still singing on a plate.

It is homesick, alone, away
from its chosen canyons and
mountain trees around the lake,
vibrant with colour
in memories that glow
for a lifetime.

You know, as I do, poetry is not words,
but is a royal personage,
my father on his deathbed.

poem by Iain Trousdell
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Lovely friends

Very true but for not those reasons
As they are close and confident persons
They are very close and important
Though they remain away their absence is really felt

The position will always remain vacant
As we may feel helpless like infants
Continue to rule our vast heart kingdom
Such position is witnessed seldom

The friends may remain so in entire life
Whether it is easy, difficult or torn with strife
We value it high without any expectations
Lovely matching with very good combination

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Funerals are a Festival

An old lady was dead. She was my father’s
Mother’s elder sister, who brought him up
After his mother’s death when he was at seven.
I went with him to attend the funeral.

Then I was fifteen; no sadness engulfed;
Not aware how much it engulfed my father.
My funeral will be a festival to
Most who would come there for connections.
21.01.2011

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Joint At Deathbed

I smoked a joint
at my granddad’s deathbed.
In the living room of
childhood memories
Inhaling and Exhaling
blue plumes of smoke
Hours before he
drew HIS
last breath.

And
sitting at his deathbed.
as the grandfather clock struck
and the streetlamp outside the window
was turned on
and later off
I made my peace with God
and all consuming time

I smoked a joint
at my granddad’s deathbed
Putting my hand on
his
he spoke, his voice a pale whisper.
“Nothing can be done about it”
These last words to me
from a dying old man.

I smoked a joint
At my granddad’s deathbed.
Sweet soothing numbness
Held sadness and sorrow at bay.
Unspoken words of gratitude
milling around inside
but alas
a day too late.
and “nothing could be done about it”

I smoked a joint
at my granddad’s deathbed.
in cold cool contemplation
alone in the darkness, I understood:
All you hold dear will perish.
summer holidays,
friendships,
love,
life.
And no,
“nothing can be done about it”

The Old Man was right

poem by Carsten Thomsen
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Error always addresses the passions and prejudices; truth scorns such mean intrigue, and only addresses the understanding and the conscience.

quote by Azel Backus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cry of the fatherless son

I will not mourn my father's death
I won't even be struck by his death.
I will not contribute a coin to buy his coffin,
Or for the funeral which I won't even attend.
As is the custom,
I won't name my first son after him.
My children won't ever see photos of him.
I will not tell them tales
that my father supposedly told me.
His name in my house will never ring a bell,
Neither will he ring my doorbell -
For if he does I will let my dogs loose on him,
no matter how old and frail he'll be.
His name in my house shall be forbidden.

But how could I mourn your death?
How would your death strike me?
How could I contribute to your funeral?
Or attend your funeral?
As is custom,
how should I name my son after you?
And how would my children see your photos?
What tales did you tell me,
so I can tell them?
How could your name even ring a bell,
Or you ring my doorbell?
How would I let my dogs loose on you,
An old stranger that I haven't
My eyes set on?

Forgive me.

poem by Kimani wa Mumbi
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Forgiving Father - By Bissme S

She called him father
But he never treated her
As a daughter

He forces himself
On her
He uses her
To satisfy his lust

She begged him
To stop
But he never listens

Night after night
He comes into
Her room
To fulfill his lust

He has forgotten
That she is his daughter
He should be protecting her
But he didn't
He destroyed her

When she was old enough
To earn my own bread and butter
She left the house
Without looking back
She finally feel relief that
His hands will never
Touch her again

She never returned home
She never visited him
She never attended his funeral

His close friends called her
The ungrateful daughter
They don't know what he
Has done to her
The hell she went through
To satisfy his lust

Even today she find
Hard time accepting
What her father has done
To her
There were nights
She will have terrible nightmares
Remembering what her father
Did to her
Behind the close doors

God may forgive her father
For what he has done
But she cannot forgive him
And she will never forgive him forever

Even in death
She shall carry her hatred for
Her father
To her grave

Some fathers
Are meant
To be hated

poem by Bissme bissme
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A Long Car Journey

The journeywas too long,
As long as the dawn,
From morning to evening.
The car was jurcing
The car was shurfing
But when the car was in speed
It was the best indeed
But after my father
Told me ratherto close window.
I closed it.
And aaing opened quietly.
Father scold me
And retold me
To close the window.

poem by MOHAMMED Zuhair
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Treasure for joy

Need two persons,
Mummy and daddy,
the result is me;

Need two persons,
My grandparents,
to take care of me;

Need two persons,
Child specialist and family physician,
to look after my health;

Need two persons,
My loving teachers,
to teach me manners;

Need two persons,
My sincere friends,
for play and pastime;

Time has come,
A good job has come,
A happy companion has come;

A beautiful wife to share my life,
We have two children, a girl and boy,
They are our treasure for joy.

poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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Savantism

THITHER, as I look, I see each result and glory retracing itself and
nestling close, always obligated;
Thither hours, months, years--thither trades, compacts,
establishments, even the most minute;
Thither every-day life, speech, utensils, politics, persons, estates;
Thither we also, I with my leaves and songs, trustful, admirant,
As a father, to his father going, takes his children along with him.

poem by Walt Whitman
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The Book

I have found myself searching for a book in my father's attic.
A book that he meant to burn, but instead hid away.
On his deathbed he told me categorically to destroy it,
by burning each page come what may.

The book was a Greek translation from ancient Aramaic text,
which was discovered in eastern Turkey in 1886.
The goat herder that found it sold it for a few Turkish lira
to a Greek mountain climber and archaeologist.

In Athens he read it and told a learned friend about its contents,
his so called friend told someone else and so did he.
This inevitably led to the book being stolen and repeatedly sold,
until my father bought it from a French soldier in 1943.

As a young man my father studied ancient Greek at university
and soon realised what the book contained.
It was a powder keg of mind blowing revelations about the psyche,
its development and expansion were explained.

It detailed the mind control of others, mysticism, and the occult.
The practice of spiritual and angelic communication.
The transportation of the body to other dimensions,
and life's process of perpetuation.

My father read the book though didn't practice it's teachings,
he realised the enormous threats to life it contained.
But for many reasons he found its destruction impossible,
so it's fate with me remained.

poem by Orlando Belo
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Sorry I missed your funeral.

Will you ever forgive, me for missing your funeral?
You might have seen the pain I felt when I heard you passed
Every time I see your picture
My heart just pours out
My eyes get filled with tears
Cud be because I never said goodbye

Daps I really loved you
Deep down in my heart you still live
Your memory lives in me
You I will never forget

Bhelekazi be free, and maybe then I too will be
All I need to know is ….
Are you mad at me?
Have you forgiven me?
For missing your funeral

I was never told of your ill health
Only of your death I was told
How I wish you were still alive
So many things we cud have shared
How can you die so early?
When I was just to matriculate

You were a strong and a loving person
Humble and trusting
Will you ever forgive me for missing your funeral?

Of little words you were
Of much love you gave
You’d take me and Zameka
And brag about your two daughters
Though I was just your niece

I love you Bhelekazi
I miss you so-langa
Will you ever forgive me?
For missing your funeral

poem by Nangamso Ndikandika
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