poets and graveyards, and the graves of poets. I promise I am not getting all gothic about it. I just do. I also love Quakers, so I was tickled to run across this bit where a Quaker poet (Henry Taylor) is writing a poem about a poet's grave. There's nothing particularly Quaker about the poem, but the whole situation is familiar.
At the Grave of E. A. Robinson
Decades of vague intention drifted by
before I brought small thanks for your large voice–
a bunch of hothouse blooms and Queen Anne’s lace
and four lines from “The Man Against the Sky.”
My poems, whatever they do, will not repay
the debt they owe to yours, so I let pass
a swift half hour, watching the wind distress
the fringes of my fragile, doomed bouquet.
I beg your pardon, sir. You understood
what use there is in standing here like this,
speaking to one who hears as well as stone;
yet though no answer comes, it does me good
to sound aloud, above your resting place,
hard accents I will carry to my own.
Of The Best Stuff, but Cracked
2 comments:
There is wonderful peace at the grave of people who lived well, such as the Prospect Park Quaker grave yard, where so many of my friends lie, and in such places, I don't feel morbid, but rather, I'm often reminded to live richly and worshipfully each moment (at times I forget). Thank thee for reminding me.
lor
Thank you for directing me to this poem. There is an older cemetery a block from my house where from time to time "it does me good to sound aloud" above a few favorite resting places. Welcome to New England, Amanda! May it rise like a warm home around you...
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