The Letter
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 27, 1887
I held his letter in my hand,
And even while I read
The lightning flashed across the land
The word that he was dead.
How strange it seemed! His living voice
Was speaking from the page
Those courteous phrases, tersely choice,
Light-hearted, witty, sage.
I wondered what it was that died!
The man himself was here,
His modesty, his scholar's pride,
His soul serene and clear.
These neither death nor time shall dim,
Still this sad thing must be--
Henceforth I may not speak to him,
Though he can speak to me!
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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Here Lie's The truth
“Here Lies the truth”,
On Her tombstone this will be wrote.
It was never spoke when She was living,
So also in death, it will be unspoke.
By Her it was never said
it was as though pulling out Her soul,
So here lies the truth and herself dead
Both has died in sadness and woe.
Here lies the truth,
Not once by her was it cried,
Not in the days that she was living,
Not even in the day that She had died.
She must of believed that it was a sin
To open Her heart and listen to the word
So She closed her heart and locked it shut,
And She never believed in no one but Her.
Here lies the truth,
It lived but a very short life,
Though the Woman died of years of age
The truth though, never had a chance to try.
Everyone She knew had learned Her lie
They never believed a word that she said
So when She finally tried to speak the truth,
Her heart stopped; and She laid dead.
Here lies the truth
It lived but a very short life,
It was loved by neither Child or Man,
For they believe its living was but a lie.
So here in the grave it will lay dead
As it had lived in this woman's soul,
Never again will it be uttered or thought of,
Never till the end of time will it be thought of or known.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Speak The Word
Unsettled hearts
Promise what they cant deliver
Bring me the wine
And the cold night air to clear my head
Gray matter memory house
Master of this trembling flesh
Steady still my doubts
Let me speak the word that precedes bliss
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Love love love love love love love love
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Love love love love love love love love
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
These weakened knees
Have not touched ground or pew in ages
I havent bowed my head
I offer thanks to any God or to ask for favors
But watch me now
Im falling down
Praying
To speak the word that precedes bliss
To speak the word
To speak the word
Love love love love love love love love
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Love love love love love love love love
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
song performed by by Tracy Chapman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Haunted
What are these nameless mysteries,
These subtleties of life and death,
That bring before our spirit eyes
The loved and lost; or, like a breath
Of lightest air, will touch the cheek,
And yet a wordless language speak?
In every breeze that blows, to-day,
One voice seems speaking unto me;
And north or south, whichever way
I turn my gaze, one face I see,
And closely, closely at my side
A mystic shadow seems to glide.
A motley crowd we move among,
We surge on with the mighty mass,
And yet no one in all the throng
Looks strangely on us as we pass.
No eye but mine own seems to see
The nameless thing that walks by me.
I cannot touch a proffered hand
But this strange shadow glides between.
Why came he from the spirit land?
What brought him from the world unseen?
Why am I troubled and oppressed
By the vague presence of my guest?
He was my friend! I should rejoice!
I loved him once! Why do I fear?
And yet I shudder as his voice
Speaks in the wind. I feel him near,
This restless spirit of the dead,
And shiver with a nameless dread.
I loved him once; he was my friend;
He held the first place in my heart,
And might have held it to the end.
But our two ways spread wide apart:
I kept the path upon the hill,
And he went down and down, until
He reached the depths of sin and shame,
And died as sots and drunkards die.
I ceased to even speak his name.
God knows I never thought that I,
Who blamed his lack of moral strength,
Might answer for his fall, at length!
O restless dead, lost friend of mine!
I might have saved you, had I tried.
I saw you lift the glass of wine,
And, seeing, had I warned you, cried,
'Touch not, taste not the drink accursed!'
I might have saved you from the thirst
That swallowed up your brain and soul.
But nay! I scorned you when you fell,
And, looking upward to my goal,
Left you to stagger down to hell.
Accusing spirit of the dead,
Your presence fills my heart with dread!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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My Skeleton, My Rival
Interesting that I have to live with my skeleton.
It stands, prepared to emerge, and I carry it
with me—this other thing I will become at death,
and yet it keeps me erect and limber in my walk,
my rival.
What will the living see of me
if they should open my grave but my bones
that will stare at them through hollow sockets
and bared teeth.
I write this to warn my friends
not to be shocked at my changed attitude
toward them, but to be aware
that I have it in me to be someone
other than I am, and I write to ask forgiveness
that death is not wholesome for friendships,
that bones do not talk, have no quarrel with me,
do not even know I exist.
A machine called skeleton will take my place
in the minds of others when I am dead
among the living, and that machine
will make it obvious that I have died
to be identified by bones
that have no speech, no thought, no mind
to speak of having let themselves be carried
once around in me, as at my service
at the podium or as I lay beside my love
or when I held my child at birth
or embraced a friend or shook a critic's hand
or held a pen to sign a check or book
or wrote a farewell letter to a love
or held my penis at the bowl
or lay my hand upon my face at the mirror
and approved of it.
There is Ignatow, it will be said,
looking down inside the open grave.
I'll be somewhere in my poems, I think,
to be mistaken for my bones, but There's Ignatow
will be said. I say to those who persist,
just read what I have written.
I'll be there, held together by another kind
of structure, of thought and imagery,
mind and matter, love and longing, tensions
opposite, such as the skeleton requires
to stand upright, to move with speed,
to sit with confidence, my friend the skeleton
and I its friend, shielding it from harm.
poem by David Ignatow
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The Light By Which She Read
The light by which she read my letter
First began to flicker ray by ray.
But soon the light glowed intensely,
Such that the darkness dropped away.
The obscured pages were suddenly clear,
And every line showed openly what I meant.
As she read on the darkness broke apart,
And a graphic image formed in her mind.
The light seemed to move from page to page,
Like a humming bird dwelling on the sublime.
And as my words made her heart beat heavily,
The rhythm of her pulse continued on steadily.
Henceforth my sentiments took on their own flight,
Thus the light by which she read lasted all night.
poem by Albert Price
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Custers Blues
Well you look just like general custer
On the day of his last stand
Heading up into the black hills
Glorious and grand
I saw it by your side
A map in your hand
Heading up into the rain
Singing this land is your land
Now Ive seen your dust a-rising
And Ive seen your numbers swell
Ive seen you crossing the badlands
And Ive heard your captains yell
Ive watched you when youre sleeping
Ive seen you filling up your can
Thinking as you work
That this land is your land
But now youre bursting into my country
Youre messing up my fields
Youre playing games with my holy places
Youre tearing the earth with your wheels
Right now your star is ascending
And your head is bursting with pride
But I wonder if custer was still singing
this land is my land when he died
Was he still singing this is my land when he died
Was he singing that its my land when he died
Was he singing when he died
Was he singing when he died
Was he singing its my land when he died
When he died...
Was he singing when he died
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Psalm IV
Now I'll record my secret vision, impossible sight of the face of God:
It was no dream, I lay broad waking on a fabulous couch in Harlem
having masturbated for no love, and read half naked an open book of Blake
on my lap
Lo & behold! I was thoughtless and turned a page and gazed on the living
Sun-flower
and heard a voice, it was Blake's, reciting in earthen measure:
the voice rose out of the page to my secret ear never heard before-
I lifted my eyes to the window, red walls of buildings flashed outside,
endless sky sad Eternity
sunlight gazing on the world, apartments of Harlem standing in the
universe--
each brick and cornice stained with intelligence like a vast living face--
the great brain unfolding and brooding in wilderness!--Now speaking
aloud with Blake's voice--
Love! thou patient presence & bone of the body! Father! thy careful
watching and waiting over my soul!
My son! My son! the endless ages have remembered me! My son! My son!
Time howled in anguish in my ear!
My son! My son! my father wept and held me in his dead arms.
poem by Allen Ginsberg
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Open Speech
Good friend of mine, you feel with me—
Your blood grows hot by sympathy
With something that I say or do;
Then speak—I want a word from you.
Let not the silence wrap you round
While you are living over-ground.
They say that earthly years are few;
Then speak—I want a word from you.
Perhaps I pass you in the street,
And when our eyes a moment meet,
I wonder are you wishing too;
Then speak—I want a word from you.
Are you, too, longing for a sign,
Yet fear to stretch a hand for mine?
What other am I writing to?
Then speak—I want a word from you.
Some way our thoughts together run,
Since both lift brow toward the sun
Beneath the self-same vault of blue;
Then speak—I want a word from you.
poem by John Le Gay Brereton
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The Man Who Died For Me
The man of whom I choose to speak
Was holy as can be,
For he was sinless, quite unique,
The man who died for me...
It was a long, long time ago
Yet changed all history,
Such that today most people know
The man who died for me...
Though famous in a foreign land,
His fame did not come free,
For some refused to understand
The man who died for me...
They schemed and plotted day and night,
Their hatred plain to see
And in their blindness chose to fight
The man who died for me...
And once arrested, he stood still,
Before them silently,
Until the time they chose to kill
The man who died for me...
Then he declared his holiness,
His future destiny
And yet not one agreed to bless
The man who died for me...
The crucifixion was decreed
At callous Calvary...
And there I wept to see him bleed...
The man who died for me...
They say He was God's Son and more,
His death brought victory...
I was baptised, now I adore
The man who died for me...
Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2011.
Tune in to the Revelation TV channel on Sky etc.
The Watch Now online option is on their website:
revelationtv-dot-com with extra links and videos.
poem by Denis Martindale
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A PÆan
How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung ?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?
II.
Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep ! - oh! to dishonor
Dead beauty with a tear!
III.
They loved her for her wealth -
And they hated her for her pride -
But she grew in feeble health,
And they love her - that she died.
IV.
They tell me (while they speak
Of her 'costly broider'd pall')
That my voice is growing weak -
That I should not sing at all -
V.
Or that my tone should be
Tun'd to such solemn song
So mournfully - so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.
VI.
But she is gone above,
With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
Of the dead, who is my bride. -
VII.
Of the dead - dead who lies
All perfum'd there,
With the death upon her eyes,
And the life upon her hair.
VIII.
Thus on the coffin loud and long
I strike - the murmur sent
Through the grey chambers to my song,
Shall be the accompaniment.
IX.
Thou died'st in thy life's June -
But thou did'st not die too fair:
Thou did'st not die too soon,
Nor with too calm an air.
X.
From more than fiends on earth,
Thy life and love are riven,
To join the untainted mirth
Of more than thrones in heaven -
XII.
Therefore, to thee this night
I will no requiem raise,
But waft thee on thy flight,
With a Pæan of old days.
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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The Dead whno Died for Ireland
The dead who died for Ireland!
Oh, these are living words
To nerve the hearts of patriots —
to steel avenging swords —
They thrill the soul when spoken,
and lowly bend the head
With reverence for the memories
of all our martyred dead.
The dead who died for Ireland —
the noble ones — the best,
Who gave their lives for Motherland,
Who poured upon her breast,
In Freedom's cause, the blood she gave —
Who with their dying breath,
Sent prayers to God to heal her woes —
then sealed their love in death.
The dead who died for Ireland,
How hallowed are their graves!
With all the memories fresh and green,
Oh! how could we be slaves?
How could we patient clang the chain?
How could we fawn and bow?
How could we crouch like mongrels
'neath the keeper's frowning brow?
Be proud, ye men of Ireland!
Be proud of those who died;
Never men o'er all the earth
Had greater cause for pride —
Hope and strive, and league for freedom,
And again the souls will rise
Of the dead who died for Ireland
To cheer you to the prize.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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I Died Today
i died today
no last goodbyes
no funeral will be held
no tears shed from your eyes
i died today
my chest filled with pain
it became unbearable
life if lived wouldnt be the same
i died today
words i could no longer speak
i could not breathe
my body was so weak
i died today
your words killed me
they broke my heart beyond repair
something you will not see
i died today
but you dont care
i was alone
you were not there
poem by Sandy Nobody
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Freedom Of Choice
Maurice white, beloyd taylor & azar lawrence
You gave your vote to pass the law
Do you want to take it back
All the bad news we read about today
Is it because our systems on the rack
Can you make your dreams straight reality
Can you dig the prime interest rates
Do you think youd meet hospitality
If you went to the white house by mistake
You got the freedom of choice
You got to hold on and speak with your voice
You got the freedom of choice
You got to hold on and speak with your voice
How long I wonder,
People have to wait on equal opportunity
Instead of getting better,
Rain is getting wetter to fair reality
Employment line, jammed up behind
A smiling face with promises
Will all our hopes vanish in the soap
Cause youve been washed super clean with jive
You got the freedom of choice
You got to hold on and speak with your voice
You got the freedom of choice
You got to hold on and speak with your voice
song performed by by Earth Wind And Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How I love your Voice
How I love to hear you speak and call my name
The way your lips, tongue, and mouth forms letters and words
Those sensual overtones that utter sweet sounds that resonate in my ears
How I love to hear you speak
Your articulation brings forth joy and laughter to my soul
Your words are like music set to a melody sang by angels
It is like the birds summoning me to paradise
Your subtle amplitude drives me while at ever utterance
I beg you to continue speaking to me for I have never heard a sweeter tone
Your audible vibrations are like a musical instrument playing lullabies to my soul
Your voice reminds me of being a child being rocked to sleep
Speak to me in those warm tones of elegance that only you possess
How I love to here your voice in all its magnitude
It comforts me on my lonely days of inner reflection
It brings me hope for a greater day
When I hear you regulate the tones I am in a trance
I am captivated by every sentence you speak
I listen to your words intently at its rhythm
It warms me on a cold day and cools me off in the heat
How I love just to hear you speak to me
I would give it all away just to hear your words
Such satisfying sounds swings me back and forth in a dizzy dance
I lose my footing every time you speak
It is not just your words but the beauty within that captivates me so
I save all your messages to hear plaid over and over again
They are melodious songs that bring forth the light of a new day
They are enchanting as you are in life
No words spoken could explain the grace and charm of your voice
Each time you speak I have died a thousand times
With each word I am sent heaven bound
Your voice takes me places only imagined in dreams
Paradise once lost is found in your voice
Let it be known that there is no other like you
I am compelled to a higher ground
Your expressions are like the wind in my sails that sets me free
I cannot place no other above you
Your voice is all I ever need to hear in life
Your ability to speak brings shivers up and down my spine
It has the greatest influence over my body
If I should ever fall and stricken deaf, your voice would remain reverberating in my heart
It would be the last sounds I would want to hear
Your name would be the last sound spoken from my lips
Your voice, how I love it so
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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The Dead Woman
If suddenly you do not exist,
if suddenly you are not living,
I shall go on living.
I do not dare,
I do not dare to write it,
if you die.
I shall go on living.
Because where a man has no voice,
there, my voice
Where blacks are beaten,
I can not be dead.
When my brothers go to jail
I shall go with them.
When victory,
not my victory,
but the great victory
arrives,
even though I am mute I must speak:
I shall see it come even though I am blind.
No, forgive me,
if you are not living,
ifd you, beloved, my love,
if you
have died.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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The Man Died
The man died and died and died
And finally the man died!
People killed the man severally
Before the man finally died
The mans family labelled
The man dead.
The community labelled
The man dead
.
And above all the man saw in Himself a living ghost
And had since decayed and rotted inside
That not even the warmt
Of a living blood
Could've been enough
To bring the man back
To life again.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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Hand On Heart
All eyes were staring you floated through the room
Aarmed with your razor smile cutting to the bone
My voice fell useless you flashed a quick hello
Feeling the fool, could you tell it showed?
But that was sometime ago
A memory vague and fading slow, of somewhere Id been
Hand on heart
A promise, a word, and a voice
Hand on heart
A rhythm of hope and choice will keep us together
I dont know if I can reach that high
Its a long way to fall
Hauntingly holding my fate with a gaze
Like a child mesmerized by the candles flame
Oh what lies behind those eyes
I could only guess
That certain way you stood apart frome rest
Now where is sotime ago?
Whene everything moved in slow-mo-tion
Caught by my watering eye
Hand on heart
A promise, a word and a voice
Hand on heart
Promising Ill never go
Hand on heart
For reasons youll never know, together through thick and thin,
Lose or win, Ill be there for you
Strange how the mind changes time and time again
Thins once important now pale in comparison
Hand on heart
A promise, a word, and a voice
Hand on heart
A rhythm of hope, and a vision of choice
Hand on heart
Promising Ill never go
Hand on heart for reasons youll never know
I promise girl, hand on heart
song performed by by Queensryche
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Life Beyond
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,
Who held the end was Death. He opens eyes
Slowly, to one long livid oozing plain
Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;
And waits; and once in timeless sick surmise
Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,
Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,
Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;
An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck
Of moveless horror; an Immortal One
Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly
Fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.
I thought when love for you died, I should die.
It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1910)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Life Beyond, The
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,
Who held the end was Death. He opens eyes
Slowly, to one long livid oozing plain
Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;
And waits; and once in timeless sick surmise
Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,
Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,
Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;
An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck
Of moveless horror; an Immortal One
Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly
Fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.
I thought when love for you died, I should die.
It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.
poem by Rupert Brooke
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406 [unfinished]
I do not know the meaning of the sign,
But bend before its power, as a reed bends
When the black tornado fills the valley to the lips.
Three times in twenty years its shape has come
On lines of fire on the black veil of mystery;
At first, tho' strange, it seemed familiar,
And lingered on the mind as if at rest;
The second time if flashed a thrill came, too,
For supernature spoke, or tried to speak;
The third time, like a blow upon the eyes,
It stood before me, as a page might say:
'Read, read,—and do not call for other warning'.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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