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ice
Member Elite
since 2003-05-17
Posts 3404
Pennsylvania

0 posted 2011-06-11 08:18 PM



This poem was written as a tribute to a dear friend, who was my muse, who encouraged me to write poetry, and not only read it...she told me I could do it, I didn't believe her, but she persisted.. I am glad she did. She died in 2003, after a long battle with breast cancer....

I have added a poem of hers, before mine...A short but excellent poem..both in meaning and form..it explains how she felt when she was alive...hope you enjoy both
Peace to all
ice
****************************************************
Bubble poem....by Janet Gordon
.
A bubble drifts
through a daydream,
captures a moment
inside.
Rises on currents
of laughter,
then bids the world
good-bye.
.
POP!  
****************************************************


Requiem For A Dead Poet
*
The battle is over.
Gone is the pain
And fear of the reaper
That cut your life short,
With the swinging blade of his sythe.

Now,
She is everywhere
Always far-
Always near.
And if I listen close
I can hear her voice,
Whispering poems
In the cool evening breeze.

From a bright, safe place
Free of pain and fear
Comes odd music,
Played on an Aeolian harp
That is strung
With the strings of her heart,

And I hear a voice
That sings,
"Come greet me
Say me your poems
I can hear-don't worry,
I will always be nearby
Standing in the summer fields,
Of your poetic dreams"

© Copyright 2011 ford hume - All Rights Reserved
JerryPat2
Member Laureate
since 2011-02-06
Posts 16975
South Louisiana
1 posted 2011-06-11 08:32 PM


Well, it grabbed me where it was supposed to, Ice. Her short, but massive few lines did what you said it would do, it fleshed out a person to me.

Your tribute is so in tune with how she must have felt, or feels now in the spirit. Do I believe in ghosts or spirits or the dead who speak to us? I used to not, but two days after my wife died a couple of years ago, she said to me, Jerry, honey" as plain as day. Not only did I hear it, but my dog did. We both left where we were and went to her favorite chair as if we expected her to be there. She wasn't of course, and I went back into the computer room, but my dog stayed by the chair for a long time.

~ Even if you are on the right track, you'll get run over if you just sit there.--Will Rogers ~

Margherita
Member Seraphic
since 2003-02-08
Posts 22236
Eternity
2 posted 2011-06-12 02:09 AM


It is early morning and I sat here reading with half closed sleepy eyes ...   then your muse's little gem of a poem acted like a fresh morning breeze and brought that kind of awakening that goes along with deep emotion.

And so I went on to savor your own words for her and the beauty brushed my heart for a second time.

There is that touch of sacredness here that lingers.

Exquisite, dear Ford.

Love,
Margherita

OwlSA
Member Rara Avis
since 2005-11-07
Posts 9347
Durban, South Africa
3 posted 2011-06-12 03:10 AM


Yesterday, Ford, I watched the (Special Official Category 1) funeral of Albertina Sisulu.  It lasted all of the morning and half of the afternoon.  I wept all the way through – not that I knew anything more about her than the general public did – but I did feel very warmly towards her and knew that all of South Africa did too.  However, during the funeral, I learned a lot of detail about her and knew enough about her to know that it was all true.  She was a political activist, and then a politician and then a member of parliament, only leaving parliament at the age of 88.  She was 92 when she died.  She was  not of the same political affiliation as I am, but, as I said in my poem about her, she transcended political divisions and became loved and revered by the whole of South Africa and many in other countries too.  The following poem was read out, the reader saying that, although she didn’t say these words, nor possibly even knew the poem, if she had, being who she was, she probably would have.  They sing the same beautiful consoling song as Janet’s words in her exquisite poem, each in their own beautiful way.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
31 December 2002

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there.  I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there.  I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

Your poem to Janet is very, very beautiful, touching and so very worthy of her as you describe her, and I can feel she knows and is telling you.  There will be tears, and many, but they comfort the heart and soul of you and honour her, and she will understand them – you are not betraying her by mourning and grieving - but ultimately, the beauty of her life and the continued presence of her essence, the part of her that was always there, will ease the pain a little – and reading your own poem many times (as I will be doing when I feel the loss of those who have departed) will bring solace.  

I have Poetry Club with a children’s home this afternoon, and I am going to take my poem and Mary Elizabeth Frye’s poem with me to read to the children – and with your permission (which I know you will give) I am going to take your poem and Janet’s too (keeping my tears at bay through all of them will be a mammoth task, but one which I intend to attempt with all that I have in me, as I hate crying in front of other people – except for Pipsters and on Pip).  

Reading the comments of the other poets, as I always do, I see the memories that your poem and Janet’s have evoked in Jerry and the effect that they had on Margherita.  Your input has brought comfort and solace to 3 very grateful people so far, and I am sure that there will be more.  Thank you, Ford, for sharing and enriching all who read both poems.

Owl

Balladeer
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-05
Posts 25505
Ft. Lauderdale, Fl USA
4 posted 2011-06-12 07:27 PM


Your poem is an excellent tribute to her, Ice, and her poem is exceptional. It take a great poet to get such thoughts across so clearly in such few words. I can understand why she would be such a friend to you.

I had my own such friend in Sy. He didn't cause me to write but he encouraged me to put it on the internet and share it, instead of tossing it in drawers and forgetting about it. I can  understand your feelings toward her and your devition to her memory. An excellent job, sir....

Marchmadness
Member Rara Avis
since 2007-09-16
Posts 9271
So. El Monte, California
5 posted 2011-06-13 05:13 AM


A beautiful poem, Ford, but it made me cry as most poems of this nature do. I always think of my daughter who was only 34 when cancer took her.
                                 Ida

ice
Member Elite
since 2003-05-17
Posts 3404
Pennsylvania
6 posted 2011-06-13 05:38 AM


These are the replies that posted poems hope for..
Sitting at my computer, rereading each one at 5am
Savoring liquified coffee beans, I am alerted
To other feelings on the matter of caring so deeply
For another that it hurts-hurts to know they are gone..but gone where...? Please read the short poem that Diana sent in her most thoughtful reply..and I suggest, also this one:

A poem by Wendell Berry -

A Meeting

In a dream I meet
my dead friend. He has,
I know, gone long and far,
and yet he is the same
for the dead are changeless.
They grow no older.
It is I who have changed,
grown strange to what I was.
Yet I, the changed one,
ask: "How you been?"
He grins and looks at me.
"I been eating peaches
off some mighty fine trees."

His dead friend is a man..just apply "she", where he says "he"  
We all grow strange to what we were, as life is in constant flux..she stands in the center of the same universe, only her perspective is different now..

And I am positive
She is eating peaches
"off some mighty fine trees"

Namaste-
Peace to all, and all that you love.

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