Preface to Bereavement Poems and Readings

This is a list of poems and readings that I have found meaningful and affecting, both for myself and for clients, family, and friends. They are not only about bereavement, but also touch on awareness of mortality, aging, dying, death, and how we find meaning and make sense of these existential realities that we all must face.

The poems express a wide range of emotions and understandings of these issues. They encompass sadness, anger, fear, anxiety, shock, wonder, joy, humor, relief, bitterness, frustration, disgust, distress, despair, resignation, indignation, rebellion, and more. Some are religious or spiritual. Others are cynical or satirical.

If you pass them on to others, be careful. Make sure that you respect the person’s perspective and focus, their feelings, beliefs, and values. Be aware of where they are in this process, what they can take in, and what they may not be ready, willing, or able to face.

(Self-disclosure: When I was working as a social worker in home health, in the early years of the AIDS epidemic, there wasn’t much hope for a cure. Probably more for my own needs, I read David Bergman’s poem, Death and the Young Man, to a young man with AIDS. He became furious and summarily “fired” me as his social worker. He was focused on living, not dying. I came away humbled, but had learned an important lesson.)

Stephanie Sabar, MSW, LCSWLos Angeles, CAwebsite: www.stephaniesabar.comemail: s_sabar@yahoo.com

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Table of Contents

Preface 1A mother - Time Heals Nothing 4Adler, Morris - Shall I cry out in anger…? 5Auden, W.H. - Stop All the Clocks 6Bergman, David - Death and the Young Man 7Bregman, Nicky - The Widow 8Bukowski, Charles - The Secret 9Donne, John - Meditations 10Freud, Sigmund - On mourning 11Frost, Robert - Bereft 12Frost, Robert - Nothing Gold Can Stay 13Frye, Mary - Do not stand at my grave and weep 14Giovanni, Nikki - Choices 15Harper-Webb, Charles - It’s Good that Old People Get Crotchety

16-17

Holland, H.S. - Death is Nothing at All 18Huffstickler, Albert - The Cure 19Ichikyo, Kozan - Empty handed.... 20Jewish Yizkor (Memorial) Reading-Man is frail…, Life has meaning…

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Kenyon, Jane - Otherwise 23Kenyon, Jane - Fear of Death Awakens Me 24Levine, Stephen - American Indian Wisdom 25Mayerson, Charlotte - Glad I Didn’t Waste Money 26-27Merwin, W.S. - Separation 28Millay, Edna St. V. - Dirge without Music 29Millay, Edna St. V. - Time does not bring relief 30Monette, Paul - Grief is madness 31Nye, Naomi Shihab - Kindness 32Nye, Naomi Shihab - The Art of Disappearing 33O’Donohue, John - Encouragement 34Oliver, Mary - Poppies 35Oliver, Mary - Summer Day 36Oliver, Mary - When Death Comes 37Oliver, Mary - White Owl 38Oliver, Mary - Winter Hours 39Owen, Wilfred - Dulce et Decorum Est 40Perls, Laura - Awareness of Mortality 41Piercy, Marge - Edges of Emptiness 42Piercy, Marge - For Mourning 43

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Piercy, Marge - When a Friend Dies 44Reimer, Jack - Jewish Prayer of Remembrance 45Rexroth, Kenneth - Poems from the Japanese 46-47Schulweis, Harold - Consolation 48Shakespeare, William - Fear no more... 49Shakespeare, William - Sonnet 64, When I Have Seen… 50Thomas, Dylan - Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night. 51Twenty-Third Psalm 52Willowgreen, J.E.M - Affirmation for Loss 53

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Time Heals Nothing…

Time heals nothing. It only puts a thin tissue of scars over the old wounds. The tissue can easily be abraded and the old pain can once more rise, achingly and without bidding or conscious thought or reason, to the surface. All time does is dull the pain, not kill it. All time does is teach that the pain will always be there but that it is possible to learn to live with it and come to some kind of terms with it.

- A mother who lost her son to AIDS

Yizkor (Jewish Memorial Service) Reading - by Morris Adler

Shall I cry out in anger, O God,Because Your gifts are mine but for a while?

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Shall I forget the blessing of healthThe moment there is pain?

Shall I be ungrateful for the laughter,the seasons of joy, the days of gladness,when tears cloud my eyes and darken the worldand my heart is heavy within me?

Shall I blot from my mind the loveI have rejoiced in when fateleaves me bereft of shining presencesthat have lit my way through the yearsof companionship and affection?

Shall I, in days of adversity, fail to recallthe hours of glory You once did grant me?

Shall I, in turmoil of need and anxiety,Cease blessing You for the peace of former days?Shall the time of darkness put out for everThe glow of light in which once I walked?

Give me the vision, O God, to seethat embedded in each of your giftsis a core of eternity, undiminished and bright,an eternity that survives the dread hours of affliction.

Those I have loved, though now beyond my view,Have given form and quality to my being.They have led me into the wide universeI continue to inhabit, and their presenceis more real to me than their absence.

What You give to me, O Lord,You never take away.And bounties granted onceShed their radiance evermore.

SONG: STOP ALL THE CLOCKSby 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 drumBring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overheadScribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

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Put crepe 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 forever: 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 woods:For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Death and the Young Man(after Schubert)by David Bergman

"Death, you needn't be afraid, thin and fevered though I am.I, who have waited so longto see you, will not strugglenow that you've arrived. Just begentle. This is my first time."

"Yes, I was frightened. Though Ihave taken many ravaged by Time and Cruelty, yetnot until now, one like youso beautiful and ready.

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Let me hold you in my arms."

The WidowBy Nicky Bregman

Like a wounded birdits wing draggingfeeling the cold shaftsof drizzling bitter rainas it splashes into puddle darkness.

She is an outsiderthe widowed onefriends, fearful of her frayed edgesher pain may puncturethe idyllic bubblethey call home.

Her pressure alwayspotentially dangerousWill she stray, extend too far?Cross into forbidden territory.They stand united on their porchexclusionary in their politeoff-putting tactics.

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The Secretby Charles Bukowski

don't worry, nobody has thebeautiful lady, not really, andnobody has the strange andhidden power, nobody isexceptional or wonderful ormagic, they only seem to beit's all a trick, an in, a con,don't buy it, don't believe it,the world is packed withbillions of people whose lives and deaths are useless andwhen one of these jumps upand the light of history shinesupon them, forget it, it's notwhat it seems, it's justanother act to fool the foolsagain.there are no strong men, thereare no beautiful women.at least, you can die knowing thisand you will have the only possiblevictory.

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MEDITATIONSby John Donne

XVII

... All mankind is of one Author, and is one volume; when one man dies , one Chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every Chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation; and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again, for that Library where every book shall lie open to one another. ...

... No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. ...

VII

... Death is in an old man's door, he appears and tells him so, and death is at a young man's back, and says nothing; age is a sickness and youth is an ambush; and we need so many physicians as may make up a watch, and spy every inconvenience. There is scarce anything, that hath not killed somebody; a hair, a feather hath done it; nay, that which is our best antidote against it, hath done it; the best cordial hath been a deadly poison. ...

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Freud on mourning the loss of a loved one

Freud wrote to a friend whose son had died:

Although we know that after such a loss the acute stage of mourning will subside, we also know that we shall remain inconsolable and never find a substitute. No matter what may fill the gap, even if it be filled completely, it nevertheless remains something else. And actually this is how it should be. It is the only way of perpetuating that love which we do not want to relinquish.

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BEREFT by Robert Frost

Where had I heard this wind beforeChange like this to a deeper roar?What would it take my standing there for,Holding open a restive door,Looking downhill to a frothy shore?Summer was past and day was past.Somber clouds in the west were massed.Out in the porch’s sagging floor,Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,Blindly struck at my knee and missed.Something sinister in the toneTold me my secret must be known:Word I was in the house aloneSomehow must have gotten abroad,Word I was in my life alone, Word I had no one left but God.

NOTHING GOLD CAN STAYby Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,

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Her hardest hue to hold.Her earliest leaf's a flower;But only so an hour.Then leaf subsides to leaf.So Eden sank to grief,So dawn goes down to day.Nothing gold can stay.

Do not stand at my grave and weepby Mary Elizabeth Frye

(Earliest known version)

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.

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I am the gentle autumn rain.When you awake in the morning’s hushI am the swift uplifting rushOf quiet birds in circling flight.I am the soft star-shine at night.Do not stand at my grave and cry.I am not there. I did not die.

(Alternate version)

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 softly falling snow.I am the gentle showers of rain,I am the fields of ripening grain.I am in the morning hush,I am in the graceful rushOf beautiful birds in circling flight,I am the starshine of the night.I am in the flowers that bloom,I am in a quiet room.I am in the birds that sing,I am in each lovely thing.Do not stand at my grave bereftI am not there. I have not left.

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CHOICESby Nikki Giovanni

if i can’t dowhat i want to dothen my job is to notdo what i don’t wantto do

it’s not the same thingbut it’s the best I cando

if i can’t havewhat i want thenmy job is to wantwhat i’ve got and be satisfiedthat at least there is something moreto want

since i can’t gowhere i needto go then I must gowhere the signs pointthough always understandingparallel movement isn’t lateral

when i can’t express what i really feeli practice feeling what i can expressand none of it is equali knowbut that’s why mankindalone among the animalslearns to cry

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It’s Good That Old People Get Crotchetyby Charles Harper-Webb

It’s good that they complain and snap and scold.It’s good they take all day to cross the street,glaring, holding up their hands like traffic cops.

It’s good they confuse us with cousins we despised.It’s good they stink of mold and slops, and their mouths gape,black-toothed and snoring, when they sleep.

It’s lucky they fall out of bed and break their hipsat 2 A.M. and must be driven to Emergencywhen we have the flu. It’s fortunate they’re shunted

house to house like heirloom trolls – relatives vyingto create the most convincing reasons whythey can’t take the oldster, although they’d love to.

It’s good each morning we’re afraid to find them dead, and hope we do. It’s good they bawl – “I’m such a burden,” “After all I’ve done for you,”

“Nobody wants me!” – and every word is true.It’s a godsend they answer the phone,“take” messages they don’t write down,

and yell, “They’ve chained me to the bed!”It’s fortunate that who they were sometimes floatsabove their heads, then disappears,

And it’s like watching Dad devolve into The Thing.It’s good even the “Home” we finally put them ininstead of buying a car that runs, fixing our roof

that leaks – The Home that will haul us to the Poor House in a year – can’t control their tantrums any morethan we can. So it’s good they curse, and shriek

like birds, and won’t stop fussing with their shit.It’s fortunate the jowly minister drops by,Spends a minute with his parishioner, and an hour(continued)

proselytizing us. It’s good that, at the grocery storewe lose our appetite, passing the Depends.It’s good we’ve cried so much, grief has become a bore.

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It’s good that every atom in those ancient bodies roars,“I need,” until we scream, “Oh God, just die!”How else could we stand to let them go?

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Death is Nothing at Allby Henry Scott Holland (1847-1918)Canon of St. Paul's Cathedral

Death is nothing at all.I have only slipped away into the next room.

I am I and you are you.Whatever we were to each other,that, we are still.

Call me by my old familiar name.Speak to me in the easy way, which you always used.Put no difference into your tone.Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed At the little jokes we always enjoyed together.Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.Let my name be ever the household word, that it always was.Let it be spoken without affect,without the trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.It is the same that it ever was.There is absolute unbroken continuity.Why should I be out of mindbecause I am out of sight?

I am waiting for you,for an interval,somewhere very near,just around the corner.

All is well.

The Cure by Alfred Huffstickler

We think we get over things.We don’t get over things.Or say, we get over the measlesbut not a broken heart.

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We need to make that distinction.The things that become part of our experienceNever become less a part of our experience.How can I say it?

The way to get over a life is to die,Short of that, you move with it,Let the pain be painNot in the hope it will vanishBut in the faith that it will fit in,And be then not any less pain but true to form.

Because anything natural has aninherent shape and will flow towards it.And a life is as natural as a leaf.That’s what we’re looking for:not the end of a thing but the shape of it.

Wisdom is seeing the shape of your life withoutObliterating, getting over, aSingle instant of it.

- from “Wanda” Walking Wounded

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Empty-handed…by Kozan Ichikyo

Empty-handed I entered the worldBarefoot I leave it.My coming, my going --Two simple happenings that got entangled.

Man is frail; his life is short and fleeting, Jewish Yizkor

ReadingLike an aimless cloud that drifts at noonday,

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Like the morning mists that rise and gather, Like the grass that sprouts and grows and withers.With his sweat he daily wrests his morsel, Wetting down with tears his every portion.Vexed and harassed even from the cradle,Stumbling, falls, and then resumes his struggle.Ne’er content his eyes with all their seeing, Nor his heart with all its endless wishes,Seeking more and more of wealth and power‘Til at last death comes to overtake him.Year by year, we see fresh blights of sorrow,Pyres of blasted hopes that rise to mock us,Bonds of love and friendship torn and severed,Homes left desolate, bereft of dear ones.Yet this sacred hour of cherished memories,As the past and present merge together,Is not meant to prove life vain and futile,Nor to cast down with hearts despairing. Life has meaning, life has plan and purpose;Man was not created but to perish.God has fashioned him in His own image,But a little lower than the angels.With creations of his mind, man spans the waters,Fathoms depths and tunnels towering mountains.Man is master over all creation.Earth and air, yea, time and space he conquers.Man’s achievements make his life immortalThough his span of years on earth be ended.Love and faith, and righteous, steadfast strivingLeave their imprints in the hearts of loved ones.Brick and stone and steel that gird our structures,All must crumble, in their time be shattered.Naught remains of all our pride and vauntingSave our blessed deeds that are eternal.When the memories of our dear departed Spur us on to nobler aspiration,In our hearts they live enshrined forever,Though removed from earthly habitation.When hypocrisy and hate we banish,When our efforts loose the bonds of evil,When we feed the hungry, clothe the naked, Strive for peace, for righteousness and justice – Yea, ‘tis then that we become immortal,Deathless, timeless, living on in others.

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Otherwiseby Jane Kenyon

I got out of bedon two strong legs.It might have been otherwise. I atecereal, sweetmilk, ripe, flawlesspeach. It might have been otherwise.I took the dog uphillto the birch wood.All the morning I didThe work I love.

At noon I lay down with my mate. It mighthave been otherwise.We ate dinner togetherat a table with silvercandlesticks. It might have been otherwise.I slept in a bedin a room with paintingson the walls, andplanned another dayjust like this day.But one day, I know,it will be otherwise.

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Fear of Death Awakens Meby Jane Kenyon

. . . or it’s a cloud shadow passing over TuckermanRavine, darkening the warm ledges and alpine vege-tation, then moving on. Sunlight reasserts itself, and that dark, moving lane is like something that never happened, something misremembered, dreamed in anxious sleep.

Or it’s like swimming unexpectedly into cold waterin a spring-fed pond. Fear locates in my chest, instant,and profound, and I speed up my stroke, or turnback the way I came, hoping to avoid more cold.

American Indian Wisdom on Life and Deathby Stephen Levine

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In this culture we look at life as though it were a straight line. The longer the line the more we imagine we have lived, the wholer we suppose ourselves to be, and the less horrendous we imagine the end point. The death of the young is seen as tragic and shakes the faith of many. But in the American Indian culture one is not seen linearly but rather as a circle, which becomes complete at about puberty with the rites of passage. From that time on one is seen as a wholeness that continues to expand outward. But once "the hoop" has formed, anytime one dies, one dies in wholeness. As the American Indian sage Crazy Horse commented, "Today is a good day to die for all the things of my life are present." In the American Indian Wisdom wholeness is not seen as the duration one has lived but rather the fullness with which one enters each complete moment.

- from Who Dies, pp. 4-5

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Glad I Didn't Waste Money by Charlotte Mayerson

Glad I didn't waste money straightening that toothGlad I resistedThough they warned The misalignmentWould cause wearing away,DecayBy the time he was middle-aged.Well, at least I don't have to worry about that .

"Did I tell him everything he needs to know?"When he left home(Left home. At the very least.)I sewed name tags on all his clothesWith stitches so tinyThey were like a thousand stored penancesTo the account of that question.Well, whatever he doesn't knowDoesn't matter now, does it?That's a relief.

(And the shirt I chose to bury him in?That blue and white checked job he wore to death?Unmarked.Never mind, no laundry service where he's gone now.Losing stuff is no problemThat's for sure.)"My God! I forgot about the earlobes --Or the toes."I'd prod myself with those When I was pregnantAs if not attending themMight mean he didn't get themOr got imperfect ones...And maybe there was something to it.Toward the end, he said,"AIDS has cured me of athlete's foot."Thank God we don't have that to deal with anymore.

(continued)

Or his eyesHis grandfather had glaucomaSo I'd nag himTo get his eyes checked.He went blind anyhow --

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Not from glaucoma, though,That wasn't the problem I'm happy to say. Though he didn't die of lung cancerHe did stop smokingThere's that to be thankful forAnd though he was always climbingTo the top of the tallest treeAnd going on wild adventuresTo places I'd never heard of...He escaped all that.Because he was so carefully brought up,He was safe.Such dangers didn't touch him.There's that to take comfort in.Of course, when he was thirty-fiveThe bogeyman got him anyhow.Test score? Zero.That's the very thingSo-called mothers Are meant to prevent.

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SEPARATIONBy W.S. Merwin

Your absence has gone through meLike thread through a needle.Everything I do is stitched with its color.

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Dirge Without Musicby Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for it has been, time out of mind:

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.Crowned with lilies and with laurel they go; butI am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,A formula, a phrase remains, - but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love. -

They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses.Elegant and curled

Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But Ido not approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the graveGently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

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Time does not bring relief… by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time does not bring relief; you all have liedWho told me time would ease me of my pain!I miss him in the weeping of the rain;I want him at the shrinking of the tide;The old snows melt from every mountain-side,And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;But last year’s bitter loving must remainHeaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.There are a hundred places where I fearTo go, - so with his memory they brim.And entering with relief some quiet placeWhere never fell his foot or shone his faceI say, “There is no memory of him here!”And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

Grief is madness…by Paul Monette

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Grief is madness - ask anyone who's been there. They will tell you it abates with time, but that's a lie. What drowns you in the first year is a force of solitude and helplessness exactly equal in intensity to the love you had for the one who's gone. Equally passionate, equally intimate. The spaces between the stabs of pain grow longer after a while, but they're empty spaces. The cliches of condolence get you back to the office, back to your taxes and the dinner table - and for everyone else's sake, you collaborate. The road of least resistance is paved with the gravel of well-meaning friends, rather like the gravel that cremation leaves.

from: Last Watch of the Night

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Kindnessby Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really isyou must lose things,feel the future dissolve in a momentlike salt in a weakened broth.What you held in your hand,what you counted and carefully saved,all this must go so you knowhow desolate the landscape can bebetween the regions of kindness.How you ride and ridethinking the bus will never stop,the passengers eating maize and chickenwill stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,you must travel where the Indian in a white poncholies dead by the side of the road.You must see how this could be you,how he too was someonewho journeyed through the night with plansand the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.You must wake up with sorrow.You must speak to it till your voicecatches the thread of all sorrowsand you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,only kindness that ties your shoesand sends you out in the day to mail letters and purchase bread,only kindness that raises its headfrom the crowd of the world to sayIt is I you have been looking for,and then goes with you everywherelike a shadow or a friend.

ColumbiaThe Art of Disappearingby Naomi Shihab Nye

When they say Don't I know you?say no.When they invite you to the party

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remember what parties are likebefore answering.Someone telling you in a loud voicethey once wrote a poem.Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.Then reply.If they say We should get togethersay why?

It's not that you don't love them anymore.You're trying to remember somethingtoo important to forget.Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.Tell them you have a new project.It will never be finished.

When someone recognizes you in a grocery storenod briefly and become a cabbage.When someone you haven't seen in ten yearsappears at the door,don't start singing him all your new songs.You will never catch up,Walk around feeling like a leaf.Know you could tumble any second.Then decide what to do with your time.

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Encouragement

“There are people whose presence is encouraging. One of the most beautiful gifts in the world is the gift of encouragement. When someone encourages you, that person helps you over a threshold you might otherwise never have crossed on your own. There are times of great uncertainty in every life. Left alone at such a time, you feel dishevelment and confusion like gravity. When a friend comes with words of encouragement, a light and lightness visit you and you begin to find the stairs, the door out of the dark. The sense of encouragement you feel from the friend is not simply her words or gestures; it is rather her whole presence enfolding you and helping you find the concealed door. The encouraging presence manages to understand you and put herself in your shoes. There is no judgement but words of relief and release.”

- from “Eternal Echoes” by John O’Donohue

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POPPIES by Mary Oliver

The poppies send up theirorange flares; swayingin the wind, their congregationsare a levitation

of bright dust, of thin and lacy leaves.There isn't a placein this world that doesn't

sooner or later drownin the indigos of darkness,but now, for a while,the roughage

shines like a miracleas it floats above everythingwith its yellow hair.Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade

from hooking forward --of courseloss is the great lesson.

But also I say this: that lightis an invitationto happiness,and that happiness,when it's done right,is a kind of holiness,palpable and redemptive.Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,I am washed and washedin the river of earthly delight --

and what are you going to do--what can you doabout it--deep, blue night?

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The Summer Dayby Mary Oliver

Who made the world?Who made the swan, and the black bear?Who made the grasshopperThis grasshopper, I mean --the one who has flung herself out of the grass,the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down –who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.Now she snaps her wings open then floats away,I don't know exactly what a prayer is.I do know how to pay attention, how to fall downinto the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,which is what I have been doing all day.Tell me, what else should I have done?Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?Tell me, what is it you plan to dowith your one wild and precious life?

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WHEN DEATH COMESby Mary OliverWhen death comeslike the hungry bear in autumn;when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;when death comeslike the measle-pox;

when death comeslike an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everythingas a brotherhood and a sisterhood,and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as commonas a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and somethingprecious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my lifeI was a bride married to amazement.I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real.I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

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WHITE OWL FLIES INTO AND OUT OF THE FIELDby Mary Oliver

Coming downout of the freezing skywith its depths of light, like an angel,or a buddha with wings,it was beautifuland accurate,striking the snow and whatever was therewith a force that left the imprintof the tips of its wings---five feet apart---and the grabbingthrust of its feet,and the indentation of what had been runningthrough the white valleysof the snow---

and then it rose, gracefully,and flew back from the frozen marshes,to lurk there,like a little lighthouse,in the blue shadows---so I thought:maybe death isn't darkness, after all,but so much lightwrapping itself around us---

as soft as feathers---that we are instantly wearyof looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,not without amazement,and let ourselves be carried,as through the translucence of mica,to the riverthat is without the least dapple or shadow---that is nothing but light---scalding, aortal light---in which we are washed and washedout of our bones.

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Winter Hoursby Mary Oliver

“There is something you can tell people over and over, and with feeling and eloquence, and still never say it well enough for it to be more than news from abroad – people have no readiness for it, no empathy. It is the news of personal aging – of climbing, and knowing it, to some unrepeatable pitch and coming forth on the other side, which is pleasant still but which is, unarguably, different – which is the beginning of descent. It is the news that no one is singular, that no argument will change the course, that one’s time is more gone than not, and what is left waits to be spent gracefully and attentively, if not quite so actively….

I don’t think I am old yet, or done with growing. But my perspective has altered – I am less hungry for the busyness of the body, more interested in the tricks of the mind. I am gaining, also, a new affection for wood that is useless, that has been tossed out, that merely exists, quietly, wherever it has ended up. Planks on the beach rippled and salt-soaked. Pieces of piling, full of the tunnels of shipworm. In the woods, fallen branches of oak, of maple, of the dear, wind-worn pines. They lie on the ground and do nothing. They are travelers on the way to oblivion.

…Near the path, one of the tall maples has fallen. It is early spring, so the crimped, maroon flowers are emerging. Here and there slabs of the bark have exploded away in the impact of its landing. But, mostly, it lies as it stood, though not such a net for the wind as it was. What is it now? What does it signify? Not Indolence, surely, but something, all the same that balances with Ambition.

Call it Rest. I sit on one of the branches. My idleness suits me. I am content. I have built my house. The blue butterflies, called azures, twinkle up from the secret place where they have been waiting. In their small blue dresses they float among the branches, they come close to me, one rests for a moment on my wrist. They do not recognize me as something very different from this enfoldment of leaves, …this wooden palace lying down, now, upon the earth, like anything heavy, and happy, and full of sunlight, and half asleep.”

- from Winter Hours, pp. 11-13

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Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred OwenFirst Published in 1921------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,And towards our distant rest began to trudge.Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hootsOf gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumblingFitting the clumsy helmets just in time,But someone still was yelling out and stumblingAnd flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sightHe plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could paceBehind the wagon that we flung him in,And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,If you could hear, at every jolt, the bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungsBitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--My friend, you would not tell with such high zestTo children ardent for some desperate glory,The old Lie: Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori. *

* How sweet and beautiful/proper it is to die for your country. - from an Ode by Horace, Roman poet

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Awareness of Mortalityby Laura Perls

“Real creativeness, in my experience, is inextricably linked with the awareness of mortality. The sharper this awareness, the greater the urge to bring forth something new, to participate in the infinitely continuing creativeness in nature, This is what makes out of sex, love; out of the herd, society; out of corn and fruit, bread and wine; and out of sound, music. This is what makes life livable and - incidentally - therapy possible.”

- Laura Perls, Living at the Boundary, p. 122

EDGES OF EMPTINESSby Marge Piercy

Those who truly inhabit our liveswhose faces, whose gestures

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like fine choreography align the air,whose voices enter that ghostly inner earso that we shall hear them ten yearslater in an empty room at dusk,never can their presence be replaced.

Those with whom we are truly intimatesometimes with hands and organs,sometimes with the paste of words alone,the creatures for whom the hollowplaces of our solitude are opened wideto shimmer with the lighted lamps of love,we shape ourselves to hold them.

We have been configured to a use,a habitation. We are the chamberedshell of a nautilus, the high steepcoil of a conch, and always those vaults,those winding galleries of pearlwill futilely await the one whose need and pleasure they hardened around.

In love we weave ourselves together,Persian carpets with the colorsof each friendship knotted fine and tight,the pattern as visible on the reverse.That dance of hue and light we studiedto perfect will never again join.Loneliness is general or precise:

broad as a wheatfield under a broad Nebraskasky or narrow as a footpath betweencliff and canyon. Particular, we starveat Thanksgiving table. Feed us voices, tales,faces, ornaments, we suck a shard of glass.Those hungers lodge in our bones where theysign to the skilled in X-rays, until death.

For Mourningby Marge Piercy

I wear grey for mourning, never black.Black is my hair, black is the intensenight of the dark of the moon straight up,the rarest wood and skin, the sleek of seals,the shining of wide open pupils, the heartof the poppy, the cat’s patent leather flank.

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I mourn in grey, grey as the sleetedwind, the bled shades of twilight,gunmetal, battleships, industrial paint,the uniforms of trustees, the grey of proper business suits and bankers hearts,the color of ash. Death comes in as fog.

When a friend diesby Marge Piercy

When a friend diesthe salmon run no fatter.The wheat harvest will feed no more bellies.Nothing is won by endurancebut endurance.A hunger sucks at the mindfor gone color after the last bronzechrysanthemum is withered by frost.A hunger drains the day,a homely sore gapafter a tooth is pulled,a red giant gone nova,an empty place in the sky

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sliding down the archafter Orion in night as wideas a sleepless staring eye.When pain and fatigue wrestlefatigue wins. The eye shuts.Then the pain rises again at dawn.At first you can stare at it.Then it blinds you.

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JEWISH PRAYER OF REMEMBRANCEBy Jack Riemer and Sylvan Kamens

In the rising of the sun and in its going down,we remember them.

In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,we remember them.

In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring,we remember them.

In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of summer,we remember them.

In the rustling of leaves and in the beauty of autumn,we remember them.

In the beginning of the year and when it ends,we remember them.

When we are weary and in need of strength,we remember them.

When we are lost and sick at heart,we remember them.

When we have joys we yearn to share,we remember them

So long as we live, they too shall live, for they are now a part of us,as we remember them.

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Kenneth Rexroth's translations of poems from the Japanese - 1

In the dusk the pathYou used to come to meIs overgrown and indistinguishable,Except for the spider websThat hang across itLike threads of sorrow.

-Izumi Shikibo

From the beginningI knew meeting could onlyEnd in parting, yetI ignored the coming dawnAnd I gave myself to you.

-Fujiwara No Teika

I loathe the twin seasOf being and not beingAnd long for the mountainOf bliss untouched by The changing tides.

-Anonymous

Over the reeds theTwilight mists rise and settle.The wild ducks cry outAs the evening turns cold.Lover, how I long for you.

-Anonymous

We are, you and me,Like two pine needlesWhich will dry and fallBut never separate.

-Anonymous

Kenneth Rexroth's translations of poems from the Japanese - 2

I dreamed we were back together.My laughter woke me up.

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I searched frantically all around me,My eyes full of tears.

-Anonymous

The mists rise overThe still pools of Asuka.Memory does not Pass away so easily.

-Akahito

I sit at homeIn our roomBy our bedGazing at your pillow.

-Hitomaro

Will I cease to beOr will I rememberBeyond the world,Our last meeting together?

-Lady Izumi Shikibu

Out in the marsh reedsA bird cries out in sorrow,As though it had recalledSomething better forgotten.

-Ki No Tsurayuki

Now to meet only in dreams,Bitterly seeking,Starting from sleep,Groping in the darkWith hands that touch nothing.

-Yakamochi

CONSOLATIONby Rabbi Harold Schulweis

I would comfort you, my dear friendI would wipe away your tearsTurn your sorrow into joy.

I would console youWith words of wisdomOf the need for acceptance of the inevitableThe inexorable course of life.

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I would speak to you of truthThe immortality of influenceThe afterlife of memoryThe echo of goodnessIn the cavern of our lives.

But the sages cautionNot in hasteTo console the bereavedNot too soon To begin the healing.

I would raise the heavy weightFrom your heart,Wave a wand and transform your grief.

But the heart has its own wisdomSets its own timeAnd will not be rushed.

Now is the time for silenceThe dumb silence that awaits the coming of a new mood,And a brighter spiritWith you, dear friend,I will be silentTomorrow we will speak.

Fear no more the heat o' the sunby William Shakespeare

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak:The sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.

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Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!Nor no witchcraft charm thee!Ghost unlaid forbear thee!Nothing will come near thee!Quiet consummation have;And renownéd be thy grave!

(Cymbeline, IV, 2)

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Sonnet 64 by William Shakespeare

When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defacedThe rich proud cost of outworn buried age;When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;When I have seen the hungry ocean gainAdvantage on the kingdom of the shore,And the firm soil win of the watery main,Increasing store with loss and loss with store;When I have seen such interchange of state,Or state itself confounded to decay –Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,That time will come and take my love away.

This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

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Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Nightby Dylan Thomas

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 rightBecause their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir 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 sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the 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.

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Twenty-Third Psalm

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;He leadeth me beside the still watersHe restoreth my soul;He guideth me in straight paths for His name's sake.Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,I will fear no evil, For Thou art with me;Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies;Thou hast anointed my head with oil; my cup runneth over.Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

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AN AFFIRMATION FOR THOSE WHO HAVE LOST by James E. Miller Willowgreen

I believe there is no denying it: it hurts to lose. It hurts to lose a cherished relationship with another,

or a significant part of one's own self. It can hurt to lose that which has united one with the past, or that which has beckoned one into the future. It is painful to feel diminished or abandoned, to be left behind or left alone. Yet I believe there is more to losing than just the hurt and the pain. For there are other experiences that loss can call forth. I believe that courage often appears,

however quietly it is expressed, however easily it goes unnoticed by others:

the courage to be strong enough to surrender, the fortitude to be firm enough to be flexible, the bravery to go where one has not gone before. I believe a time of loss can be a time of learning unlike any other,

and that it can teach some of life's most valuable lessons:

In the act of losing, there is something to be found. In the act of letting go, there is something to be grasped. In the act of saying "goodbye”: there is a "hello' to be heard. For I believe living with loss is about beginnings as well as endings. And grieving is a matter of life more than of death. And growing is a matter of mind and heart and soul more than of body. And loving is a matter of eternity more than of time. Finally, I believe in the promising paradoxes of loss:

In the midst of darkness, there can come a great Light. At the bottom of despair, there can appear a great Hope. And deep within loneliness, there can dwell a great Love. I believe these things because others have shown the way---

others who have lost and then have grown through their losing, others who have suffered and then found new meaning.

So I know I am not alone: I am accompanied, day after night, night after day.

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