[Tim Murphy]

I wrote a poem about Margaret. It isn't a patch on Alicia's. But we are all engaged in a gulf of grief occasioned by our tears, heartfelt or not.

i.m. Margeret Griffiths

A lady lived in Dorset, thrived in Poole.
She died last month but she would love this tale..
My dad and mom sought Thomas Hardy’s grave,
made pilgimage. A statue on the green
boasted of Hardy, mayor of the town.
“Wrong Hardy,” said my father with a sneer.

There are some stories never learned at school,
pastures where sheep can look at men and quail,
even if they are pissing on a grave.
Then there is Dorset, such a placid scene
where an old woman primly in her gown
dies and her death makes all our deaths draw near.

[David Anthony]

Lovely, Tim.
Please post it here:

http://thesonnetboard.yuku.com/topic/7220

[David Anthony]

Sky in the Pie

Two sure cuts open the crust
and release a rush of dark thrushes
with golden beaks, heralding an arc of stars
borne on a rainbow. The spectrum flexes
like muscle, then settles in a single depth
of colour, blue as the powdered lapis
on a manuscript page in a rich book
of hours, blue as a dunnock's egg, blue
as distance. Take your spoon before
it elopes with the knife, and taste.

The clouds melt on your tongue
and sweeten your throat. You can chant
this day across the meadows, and call the lost flocks
home. The sheep and the chestnut cows. The cows
and the wild black horses. The wolves and small quick foxes.
All the lost beasts of your kingdom.
Call them home.


M A Griffiths

[Laura Heidy-Halberstein]

Originally Posted by Tim Murphy

I wrote a poem about Margaret. It isn't a patch on Alicia's.

It wasn't Alicia's poem, was it? I believe the poem she posted was written by Keats.

Or am I nuts?

[Stephen Collington]

Originally Posted by Laura Heidy-Halberstein

It wasn't Alicia's poem, was it? I believe the poem she posted was written by Keats.

Or am I nuts?

Well, Lo, you may well be nuts anyway . . . but yes, you're right, the poem is by Keats.

http://www.bartleby.com/126/28.html

Editing back to say: I think the impulse to commemorate--whether the tributes come from our own gardens or not--is lovely, and entirely appropriate. I'm glad to see the Keats here, and the other poems, Margaret's own and those written for her. And thank you to David A for the link to Mike Alexander's sonnet at SC.

[Petra Norr]

I've found a poem about a dog that Maz loved and lost. I remember having read it, but at a different site, probably at the Gaz. She says, in one of the posts under the poem, that she has another dog now. She loved animals; I'm sure I'm not the only one who had that impression of her. In the post below the poem, she says: "If animals don't go to heaven, I don't want to go there." I dearly hope she still had her dog when she died:
http://www.robgodfrey.com/burgundy/m...tml?1089772373

[Janice D. Soderling]

There are 399 posts in the back files here. Including this:

A Meditation of the Meaning of Existence.

I.
Y?


Regards, Maz

Quite possibly there are others that contain poems.

[Roger Slater]

The "I/Y"couplet has been done before, Janice. I seem to recall it's credited to a Siegel? Not sure, but I heard it decades ago. It seems like it could have been thought of independently by Maz, though.

Maryann, that sonnet to darkness is awesome. Utterly brilliant.

PS--

Yes, it is credited to Eli Siegel. See: http://www.aestheticrealism.net/poet...-Question.html . It is said to be the shortest poem in the English language, but I bet Ed Conti has a shorter one.

[Tim Murphy]

1952? I am shocked! I always figured Margeret was old enough to be my mother. And my misconception was entirely based on the wisdom in her writing. David, I was unable to log in at the site you linked, but I liked Mike Alexander's poem. I had to significantly revise my own:

i.m. Margeret Griffiths

A lady lived in Dorset, thrived in Poole.
She died last month but she would love this tale.
My dad and mom sought Thomas Hardy’s grave,
made pilgrimage. The statue on the green
was Thomas Hardy’s, mayor of the town.
“Wrong Hardy,” said my father with a sneer.

There are some stories never learned at school,
pastures where sheep can look at dogs and quail,
then turn their tails and give the grass a shave.
And there is Dorset, such a placid scene,
where a lone lady in her fitting gown
dies and her death makes all our deaths draw near.

[Jennifer Reeser]

How sad. My sympathies to those who will miss her.