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  #11  
Old 07-05-2018, 11:50 AM
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Nicholas F. Nicholas F. is offline
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This is an older poem I wrote for Tim when we were in near-constant contact. We'd long since fallen out of touch when he passed.


HUNTER

........“Like the hunter in the absolute outside of the country,
........the philosopher is the alert man in the absolute inside
........of ideas...”

....................—Ortega y Gasset

November, and you’re pheasantless: The birds
....are hanging south near the Nebraska line,

while far north, you’re in Fargo, flushing words
....from the mucked fields of loss and auld lang syne.

Six decades failed to blanch your rusty hair,
....but Merits tarred and split your teeth like splinters

from a weathered post. Your knees stiffen with prayer;
....your forehead bears a map of sixty winters.

The ashen barrel of your cigarette
....grows long, as does the light. For years obsessed,

you daydream, hunching over your Gasset:
....A pheasant cock sinks far off to the west.

Tonight, runnels of whiskey fill the sloughs
....as you recite late Yeats over the phone.

Your heart reaches for God, your hand for booze
....you shouldn’t have. Nor should you be alone.

....
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  #12  
Old 07-05-2018, 01:04 PM
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Maryann Corbett Maryann Corbett is offline
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No one should ever put a new draft on the Deep End, but that's what I'm about to do, and I beg pardon. Suggestions welcome, but mostly I hope to invite more poems.

rev. 3.5, approximately

Funeral Road Trip

i.m. Timothy Murphy

The whole four hours to Fargo,
our engine bucked and stuttered.
In bucketing rain, we wondered
if a poet’s intercession
would help the struggling car go,
since heaven itself remembered
the flash of his drunken passion.
Sobered at last, it mumbled
in his own three-beat concision
but deep now, calm now, largo.


rev. 1
Funeral Road Trip (i.m. T.M.)

Two hundred miles to Fargo,
our engine bucked and stuttered
as the heavens wept and thundered
(would his prayers help the car go?)

as though whole worlds remembered
the flash of his drunken passion.
The storm rolled off with a rumble—
three beats. Like his concision.
original:
Funeral Road Trip (i.m. T.M.)

Most of the way to Fargo,
the heavens wept and thundered.
Our engine bucked and stuttered
(O Lord, please make the car go!)

as though all things remembered
old scenes of drunken passion,
dying away, a rumble
in three beats of concision.

Last edited by Maryann Corbett; 07-08-2018 at 07:07 AM.
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  #13  
Old 07-05-2018, 01:07 PM
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RCL RCL is offline
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What Maryann confessed:

Our Lariat

Tim was our Poet Lariat
lassoing both charm and wit,
his poems directly from the heart
corralled with wrangler's art.
__________________
Ralph

Last edited by RCL; 07-14-2018 at 07:27 PM.
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  #14  
Old 07-05-2018, 01:10 PM
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Jayne Osborn Jayne Osborn is offline
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Maryann,

We're ignoring the usual Deep End rules for this thread. It's for tribute poems to Tim, not for critiques, so your pardon does not need to be begged!

It doesn't mean members can't make comments if they wish to, of course, but the main idea for this particular thread is... yes, more poems!!!

Jayne
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  #15  
Old 07-05-2018, 01:17 PM
Roger Slater Roger Slater is offline
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Not a poem by me, but a poem by AA Milne.

As many of you may know, Tim says that when he was born they placed him in his mother's arms and she recited Milne's "Cradle Song". It's fitting that the first words Tim heard in his life were a poem.

One night after Tim let us know he was dying, I recited this to my son at bedtime and, remembering Tim's story, it choked me up a bit, even before I got to "Sleep well, red head/ Of Timothy Tim."


Cradle Song

O Timothy Tim
...Has ten pink toes
...And ten pink toes
Has Timothy Tim.
They go with him
...Wherever he goes,
...And wherever he goes
They go with him.

O Timothy Tim
...Has two blue eyes
...And two blue eyes
Has Timothy Tim.
They cry with him
...Whenever he cries,
...And whenever he cries,
They cry with him.

O Timothy Tim
...Has one red head,
...And one red head
Has Timothy Tim.
It sleeps with him
...In Timothy’s bed.
...Sleep well, red head
Of Timothy Tim.
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  #16  
Old 07-05-2018, 02:41 PM
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Maryann Corbett Maryann Corbett is offline
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I teared up, too, Roger.
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  #17  
Old 07-05-2018, 03:25 PM
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Mary Meriam Mary Meriam is online now
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I wrote this in 2010.

In This Distance
for Tim and Alan

Fold me in your memory tighter, lover,
twenty strong descend, the angelic beings
wrestle me straight down. Are you here close by me?
........Yes, I am with you.

Quick as birds that flock in this distance, lover,
save me faster, run down the road we lived on,
twenty miles long. Are you breath, and breathing?
........Yes, I am with you.

Hold me in your arms for the last time, lover,
reach me soon, your lover lies low and wounded,
clutching twenty drops. Are you nearly with me?
........Yes, I am with you.
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  #18  
Old 07-05-2018, 03:35 PM
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Richard Meyer Richard Meyer is offline
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Two poems I wrote for Tim — one from nearly eleven years ago when Tim was in a dire situation and facing possible death, and the other composed two weeks ago as Tim neared his end. I previously posted these on the recent General Talk thread for Tim.
For Tim: A Huntsman Far From Home

Because you've wandered far away
And we have lost your track,
Remember friends who wait and pray,
Think home, and double back.

Richard Meyer
19 September 2007
The following farewell verse varies slightly from the original version.
For Tim: A Huntsman Nearing Home

No need of pack or shouldered gun,
you stride the hunter’s final trail
and journey toward the risen sun.
A dove, pure white from beak to tail,
takes wing close by and leads you on
to longed for rest that waits at dawn.

Richard Meyer
21 June 2018

Last edited by Richard Meyer; 07-05-2018 at 07:58 PM.
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  #19  
Old 07-05-2018, 06:10 PM
David Anthony David Anthony is offline
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Wede Away

Wisteria soft against a deeper blue,
and hyacinth, youth’s talisman: those bright
creations filled my wakening world with light.
I miss the flowers of spring and all things new.

Fulfilment followed promise to a time
rich with the scents and ripeness spring foretold —
honeysuckle, poppy, marigold.
I miss the flowers of summer in its prime.

Sparse as the season fades towards December,
pale soldier roses, rearguard in retreat,
still blossom as they face an old defeat,
while asters linger late into November
to hurl their small defiance at the fall.
— I’ll miss the flowers of autumn most of all.

Not written for Tim specifically, but for all those who died too young. Father Rob told me that Tim was pleased to hear It in his last days.

Last edited by David Anthony; 07-05-2018 at 06:37 PM.
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  #20  
Old 07-05-2018, 07:21 PM
Bill Carpenter Bill Carpenter is offline
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What wonderful offerings! This was not written specifically for Tim, but is for all who crave to be reunited with a friend:

XX Frea defends us from the enfeebling grief,xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe Lord (OE)
the sad disease, the burial alive,
we suffer separated from our friends.
Before that moment, neither priest nor king
had plumbed the pit of sorrow in his heart
but now the bishop fell to his stout knees
and fondled, fervently, his frea’s hands.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxfolma (OE)
He kissed them, weeping, as the holy twelve
must have kissed the hands of their dear Healer,xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxHælend (OE)
returned from hell, and death on Pilate’s tree,
and no one mocked the son of Athulf’s tears xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxmaga Æthulfs (OE)
or the strong sobs that shook the bishop’s bulk.

XX “I heard you lost an eye,” the bishop said,
the salty channels gleaming on his cheeks,
“but I believe you live. I scorn to beg xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxJohn 20:25-29
leave to touch the smooth stone in its socket.”
.
.
.

Last edited by Bill Carpenter; 07-05-2018 at 07:26 PM.
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