W. H. Auden

haven’t blogged in a while


truth is, i haven’t felt much like doing anything as of late.  then i beat myself up over not creating or not doing the things i need to do.  it’s a vicious cycle. i’ve been reading and i got to make trips with my 3 youngest kids to visit my parents and then all the kids to my unofficial hometown.  then i spent time with some amazing people in Austin.

i really want to write more, but honestly, i don’t feel like it.  i know that’s not an excuse, but i don’t.

so in lieu of my own writing, i’ll post one of my favorite poems.

Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

 

Advertisements

i love poetry…


my favorite poet is e.e. cummings.  i have his complete works and really do love the way he landscapes and sculpts his poetry. 

i love the work of W. H. Auden.  a brilliant poet who speaks beauty and truth.

and then i really love the poetry of Dylan Thomas, in particular this poem

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas