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/lit/ - Literature

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1269585 No.1269585 [Reply] [Original]

/lit/ - what is the best poem to give a friend to read who just spent all day at a funeral?

>> No.1269600

Really? Nothing at all, /lit/?

>> No.1269601

I dunno, if someone close to me had died I wouldn't be up for pretending to enjoy poetry.

>> No.1269603

I am part of the load
Not rightly balanced
I drop off in the grass,
like the old Cave-sleepers, to browse
wherever I fall.

For hundreds of thousands of years I have been dust-grains
floating and flying in the will of the air,
often forgetting ever being
in that state, but in sleep
I migrate back. I spring loose
from the four-branched, time -and-space cross,
this waiting room.

I walk into a huge pasture
I nurse the milk of millennia

Everyone does this in different ways.
Knowing that conscious decisions
and personal memory
are much too small a place to live,
every human being streams at night
into the loving nowhere, or during the day,
in some absorbing work.

>> No.1269604

Sorry, I basically don't know anything about poetry.

Well, I like Thomas Hardy, but all his best shit's about his dead wife.

>> No.1269606

>>1269601
I know him well, and I know he doesn't pretend to enjoy poetry, he just breathes it.

>> No.1269607

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Someone just died,
One day you will too.

>> No.1269625

John Donne valediction forbidden mourning

>> No.1269628

>>1269625

And his Holy Sonnets too. That one about death being a translation into the words of God or something.

>> No.1269630

The bluebird
Bukowski

>> No.1269631

>>1269625
Thank you; he read this at the funeral.

>> No.1269637

>>1269601
>implying some people don't find genuine comfort in poetry
gtfo.

>> No.1269835

I have eaten
the man
that was in
the casket

and which
you were probably
saving
for heaven.

Forgive me
he was delicious
so stiff
and so cold.

>> No.1269850

The Stranger by Albert Camus. It tells you exactly what to do after leaving a funeral (especially if it was for a loved one)

>> No.1269854

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.

>> No.1269871

I cut myself.

>> No.1269874

I hope you won't mind
But I masturbate
On his/her grave
I will dig him/her out
And take him/her from behind
Dead people are better
Than a live goat