On an Infant
Which died before baptism

'Be, rather than be called, a child of God.'
Death whispered! — with assenting nod,
Its head upon its mother's breast,
.....The Baby bowed, without demur — —
Of the kingdom of the Blest
......Possessor, not inheritor.


Samuel Taylor Coleridge

It's taken me weeks to respond to this poem because it hits so close to home, the paramedics who saved him so many times, but not the last time...how they shared our grief. Thanks to you and those like you, Laura.

I never post here, but here I am posting one of my own, too. : )

With a Child's Death

There are details to tend to,
thank-you notes to write, hugs
to give and receive, smiles
to fake, lies and stories to tell;
perky answers for a mother to rehearse,
give to those who sincerely inquire
in the grocery store line--

ways to quickly change the subject,
ask about your last trip to Europe
your father‘s new hip,
if your succulents, unlike hers,
survived the late frost.

Pat

That is very moving, Pat -- a sock to the gut. Or a little primer; it's exactly how a person would want to react to the unthinkable. If it was made out of whole cloth, then (though -- it's odd how the mind will pick at things that shouldn't be picked at -- I might argue for losing the 'with' in the title; then again, I might not) it would be perfect. You should post more often. I'm sorry to hear this, and wish that I could say something less worn than that, as you did, but glad to have your poem.

Best,

Ed




Wind last night blew down
A gardenful of peach blossoms.
A boy with a broom
Is starting to sweep them up.

Fallen flowers are flowers still;
Don't brush them away.

xxx- anonymous

J.D.,
I am still trying to catch my breath after reading your poem.

and Pat, so nice to see a poem of yours-- so subtle and yet a perfect description of what it's like to deal with acquaintances later.

I am sorry for both your losses.

Here is Eugene Field--it was the poem that first made me aware that children can also die. (I was 5 or 6.)

Little Boy Blue

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
"And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue---
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place---
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.

Thanks, all, for this sad and beautiful thread. There are many poems I love here, if not quite as much as I wish they'd never needed writing. I've had that devastating couplet from J.D. Smith's devastating poem by heart since first I read it--and was saying it in my head as I paged through all of these poems. Thanks, sir, for writing and posting it.

I can add this one to the list:

http://www.peterthabitjones.com/inde...oems&Itemid=54

a brief sequence (although a little long for posting in-thread) by Peter Thabit Jones for his son who died in infancy.

The Massacre of the Innocents

Because I believe in the community of little children,
Because I have suffered such little children to be slain;
I have gazed upon the sunlight, dazed, bewildered,
As a child is by nothing more than rain.

Not until I can no longer climb,
Until my life becomes the tallest tree,
And every limb of it a limb of shame,
Shall I look out in time, in time to see

Again those who were so small they could but die,
Who had only their vast innocence to give,
That I may tell them, pointing down the sky,
How beautiful it might have been to live.

xxx- William Jay Smith