9th Heaven – עזרא's Sphere: Memento Mori

Some random poems, during my foolish youth, I found while clearing my room.  A kind reminder to myself and everyone who reads.

Death the Leveller

The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against fate;

Death lays his icy hand on kings:

Sceptre and Crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill:

But their strong nerves at last must yield;

They tame but one another still:

Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath

When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon Death’s purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds:

Your heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

– James Shirley (1596-1666).

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 right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their 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 sight

Blind 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.

– Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

Money

When I had money, money, O!

I knew no joy till I went poor;

For many a false man as a friend

Come knocking all day at my door.

Then felt I like a child that holds

A trumpet that he must not blow

Because a man is dead; I dared

Not speak to let this false world know.

Much have I thought of life, and seen

How poor men’s hearts are ever light;

And how their wives do hum like bees

About their work from morn till night.

So, when I hear these poor ones laugh,

And see the rich ones coldly frown –

Poor men, think I, need not go up

So much as rich men should come down.

When I had money, money, O!

My many friends proved all untrue;

But now I had no money, O!

My friends are real, though very few.

– William Henry Davies

Leisure

(For those of you who doesn’t understand what is he saying, this is a poem about his belief that our lives to be more meaningful, we should have more time to “stand and stare”.)

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath and boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

– William Henry Davies

Viewing Time

(This is a poem about his belief that time spent staring at television is a waste. He advocates a fuller life spent on varied activities.)

What is this life if, freed from care,

We have no time – except to stare.

No time to savour food and drink,

Or read, or write, or sit and think.

No time to paint, play the flute,

Or dig, or yarn, or bottle fruit.

No time for politics, or drama clubs.

No time for charity, or church,

Or local history research.

– E. V. Milner

Cheers

The wine was a wedding gift. They vowed to save it for a special day.

The first child was born, then the second. The bottle remained unopened.

She got a promotion, but he was unwilling to share her joy.

When the divorce was finalized, they met to uncork the wine… it had turned to vinegar.

– Fran Manna

To Air is Human

Wrapped in bloody bandages, tubes stretching from his body, the accident victim gestured frantically to the attending priest. Desperate, unable to speak, he scribbled a message. Then, with a gasp, his breathing stopped.

After administering the last rites, the priest turned to read the dying man’s final words: “You’re standing on my air tube.”

– Trudy Flenniken

Death Becomes Them

Cyanide was quick, arsenic tasteless.

She prepared the food with great care, making his favourite dishes.

He was a genius at mixing perfectly balanced drinks.

“Dinner’s read,” she called.

They sat opposite each other.

She served them both.

He proposed a toast.

“To life!”

She raised her glass to her mouth. He began eating.

– Minoti Sahu