(no subject)

[jillianfish.livejournal.com]

I know this is a common request but my grandmother died on Tuesday evening. My aunt has asked me to say something at the service and I don't think I'll be able to handle telling any personal stories. So I'd like to request poems regarding death, moving on, being at peace and especially about joining a loved one in heaven. My grandfather died before I was born and I know my grandmother missed him every day and it would give everyone great peace to know she was with him. Also, she (and most of the people attending) are Catholic so something with a religious tone would be greatly appreciated. Many thanks, and in return, a poem I'm considering reading.

I'm Free
Don't grieve for me, for now I'm free.
I'm following the path God laid, you see.
I took His hand when I heard him call.
I turned around and left it all.
I could not stay another day,
To laugh, to love, to work or play.
Tasks left undone must stay that way,
I've found the peace on a sunny day.
If my parting has left a void,
Then fill it with remembered joys.
A family shared, a laugh, a kiss,
Oh yes, these things, I too, will miss.
Be not burdened with times of sorrow,
I wish you the sunshine of tomorrow.
My life's been full, I savored much,
Good friends, good times, a loved one's touch.
Perhaps my time seemed all too brief.
Don't lengthen it now with undue grief.
Lift up your hearts and peace to thee.
God wanted me now; He set me free.

Comments

[tx-cronopio.livejournal.com]

No suggestions, just so sorry for your loss.

[jillianfish.livejournal.com]

Thank you. It's been hard.

[missparker.livejournal.com]

My grandmother just passed too, so you have my sympathies. I read "Sorrow" by Marie Howe at her service. Maybe not the most grandmotherly poem, but it fit her pretty well. She'd been sick for a long, long time so this poem has the feeling of having lived through something awful like a long sickness. Anyway, I hope you at least find comfort if not the poem to read.

Sorrow
Marie Howe

So now it has our complete attention, and we are made whole.
We take it into our hands like a rope, grateful and tethered,
freed from waiting for it to happen. It is here, precisely
as we imagined.

If the man has died, if the child's illness has taken a sudden
turn, if the house has burned in the middle of the night
and in winter, there is at least a kind of stopping that will
pass for peace.

Now when we speak it is with a great seriousness, and when
we touch it is with our own fingers, and when we listen
it is with our big eyes that have looked at a thing
and have not blinked.

There is no longer any reason to distrust us. When it leaves
it will leave like summer, and we will remember it as a break
in something that had seemed as unrelenting as coming rain
and we will be sorry to see it go.

[fflo.livejournal.com]

 



Poem by Birago Diop; Music by Ysaye Maria Barnwell © 1980

Listen more often to things than to beings
Listen more often to things than to beings
'Tis the ancestors’ breath
When the fire’s voice is heard
'Tis the ancestor’s breath
In the voice of the waters
Ah -- wsh Ah -- wsh

Those who have died have never, never left
The dead are not under the earth
They are in the rustling trees
They are in the groaning woods
They are in the crying grass
They are in the moaning rocks
The dead are not under the earth

Listen more often to things than to beings
Listen more often to things than to beings
'Tis the ancestors’ breath
When the fire’s voice is heard
'Tis the ancestor’s breath
In the voice of the waters
Ah -- wsh Ah -- wsh

Those who have did have never, never left
The dead have a pact with the living
They are in the woman’s breast
They are in the wailing child
They are with us in our homes
They are with us in this crowd
The dead have a pact with the living

Listen more often to things than to beings
Listen more often to things than to beings
'Tis the ancestors’ breath
When the fire’s voice is heard
'Tis the ancestor’s breath
In the voice of the waters
Ah -- wsh Ah -- wsh

[heavyleg.livejournal.com]

this is another one by marie howe that i really love, about grieving and life and death.



What the Living Do
by Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

[med_cat]

So sorry for your loss.

Take a look at these, I think they might be along the lines of what you're looking for: http://med-cat.livejournal.com/420798.html

There are other poems and quotes under the "grief" tag in my LJ, feel free to take a look.