Short Poems

Last updated: July 18th, 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.

— Anonymous

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
they may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

— Philip Larkin

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone;
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum;
Bring out the coffin; let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle mourning overhead,
Scribbling in the sky the message "he is dead."
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves;
Let 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 were 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 wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

— W.H. Auden

Gathering Pine (extract)

Who lives for the future, who for now?
What good's the cigale's way or the fourmi's
If both end up as nothing anyhow?
Unless they look at life like Socrates
Who wished, at the very end, to learn to play
A new air upon his novice lyre. 'Why?'
Said his teacher, 'this is your last day.'
'To know it before I die,' was the reply.

— Tony Harrison