[Maryann Corbett]

John Crowe Ransom, "Bells for John Whiteside's Daughter"

There was such speed in her little body,
And such lightness in her footfall,
It is no wonder her brown study
Astonishes us all.

Her wars were bruited in our high window.
We looked among orchard trees and beyond
Where she took arms against her shadow,
Or harried unto the pond

The lazy geese, like a snow cloud
Dripping their snow on the green grass,
Tricking and stopping, sleepy and proud,
Who cried in goose, Alas,

For the tireless heart within the little
Lady with rod that made them rise
From their noon apple-dreams and scuttle
Goose-fashion under the skies!

But now go the bells, and we are ready,
In one house we are sternly stopped
To say we are vexed at her brown study,
Lying so primly propped.

[Golias]

Maryann,

Sincere thanks for posting "Bells for John Whiteside's Daughter." Hardly a week goes by without my reciting this one to myself or to whomever is by. It is a model and a scource of inspiration.

Wiley

[Gregory Dowling]

Another poem about a child victim of the Holocaust is Hecht's sestina "The Book of Yolek". Here's a link to an anthology that contains it; if you just insert a few words from the opening line ("The dowsed coals fume...") in the Find box you'll be taken to it. There's also a fascinating commentary by Hecht about how he came to write it.

[Janice D. Soderling]

Thank you, John, for this thread which I only now noticed. There were many poems I had not seen before which touched me to the core. Words do have power. Nearly all the moving and eloquent poems with which I am familiar have been offered already but I would like to add this one, also by Dana Gioia, for his dead son.

Prayer

Echo of the clocktower, footstep
in the alleyway, sweep
of the wind sifting the leaves

Jeweller of the spiderweb, connoisseur
of autumn's opulence, blade of lightning
harvesting the sky.

Keeper of the small gate, choreographer
of entrances and exits, midnight
whisper travelling the wires

Seducer, healer, deity or thief,
I will see you soon enough—
in the shadow of the rainfall,

in the brief violet darkening a sunset—
but until then I pray watch over him
as a mountain guards its covert ore

and the harsh falcon its flightless young.

[Jones Pat]

Thank you all for this thread. Having recently lost a son, not a child, but one who remained a child in many ways, I have loved reading these poems, wept but also received comfort from them all..two in particular, Mid-term Break by Heaney because it speaks so honestly to sibling loss...and the other, the Kooser that David posted...it is just so midwestern, like me, so like something I might do.

Thanks again, all.

Pat

[ChrisGeorge]

Dylan Thomas's poem, "A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London," posted above is appropriate at this time, I think, given the execrable events in Britain at this moment.

Chris

[David Anthony]

Dunno, Chris.

The rioters are nearly all teenagers.

Nearly all Afro-Caribbean too, though you won't see that in the news reports.

Best regards,

David

[Gail White]

This is a deeply moving thread which I just discovered. So here's my
favorite, by John Beaumont:

OF HIS DEAR SON, GERVASE

Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love
To me was like a friendship, far above
The course of nature or his tender age;
Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage:
Let his pure soul, ordain'd seven years to be
In that frail body which was part of me,
Remain my pledge in Heaven, as sent to show
How to this port at every step I go.

[John (J.D.) Smith]

I'll add a small poem of my own.




Elegy
We weren’t allowed the time to contemplate
What talents he in time might come to show,
What fame or wealth he might accumulate,
What love and other passions he might know.

We had, instead, the chance to see him crawl
And graduate to solid food, to take
Some wobbling steps that ended in a fall,
To hand an uncle’s dog a piece of cake.

To say more is to claim a flare’s bright arc
Could have reached high, though it had scarcely flown
Before dissolving in the larger dark.
We fall back on the facts, which stand alone.

He seldom cried. He used to point at birds.
And now he will be missed beyond all words.

[David Anthony]

Beautiful poem, John.
Best regards,
David