30 Poems in 30 Days: Elegies and Memories
September 11, 2007 by John Hewitt
This is Day 8 of 30 Poems in 30 Days
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? (Hamlet, V.i)
Writing an Elegy
Today is, or at least should be, a day of reflection here in America. The events of 9/11 have had an impact on our country that is still being actively felt and that I believe will be thought about and discussed, not just for years, but for centuries to come. Poetry has, from its beginning days onward, been a tool of remembrance. From Homer’s Iliad through Tennyson’s The Charge of the Light Brigade to Pinsky’s 9/11, poetry has been used to remember people and events, both heroic and tragic. Poems of this type are called elegies.
As a form, the elegy is very flexible. The term elegy should not be confused with the similar term, eulogy, which is a speech given at a funeral. An elegy is a poem of mourning and reflection. The original elegies were written in elegiac meter. Elegiac meter consists of couplets composed of a line of dactylic hexameter followed by a line of dactylic pentameter. That traditional meter (we will discuss meter in greater depth soon) is no longer required for a poem to be an elegy. All that is required is that it remembers a person’s death or other tragic event such as a battle or a natural disaster.
Poems of this type tend to carry a lot of emotion. The feelings one has about a significant event, especially a tragic one, can be complex and even contradictory. You might mourn a friend or relative but still be angered by the choices they made. You might admire the heroism of battle but recognize its flaws. Poetry is one way to work through those emotions.
When approaching material of this sort, it can be emotionally draining but also cathartic. Many people carry around these emotions and thoughts without ever being able to express them or consciously deal with them. As a poet, you can at least put your thoughts on paper, which allows you to process those thoughts and come to some sort of emotional closure.
Today’s Poetry Assignment
Write an elegy about a person or event that is meaningful to you. You don’t necessarily have to approach the most tragic event in your life. Don’t try to take on an event that is still too difficult for you to deal with. Look for something that you can handle.
Today’s Recommended Poet
Dean Young is a poet whose influence seems to increase with each new work. His poetry tends toward the surreal, but is always insightful and often genuinely funny. His poem Elegy on a Toy Piano is written for fellow poet Kenneth Koch, one of the Twentieth Century’s true greats. Don’t hesitate to read Kenneth Koch, but because my recommendations are based on working poets, please try Dean Young first. He’s still alive and worthy of a long look.
Poems on the web
- Elegy on Toy Piano
- Ode to Hangover
- Bay Arena
- Centrifuge
- My Work Among the Insects
- Sky Dive
- Sources Of The Delaware
- White Crane
Books by Dean Young
- Embryoyo
2007
- Elegy On Toy Piano
- Beloved Infidel
- Skid
O’ Sweet Muses
Where have you gone off to?
Skating and singing on a stage in leg warmers and feathered hair
Damn you all for leaving me again!
I sit and watch old episodes of
Mad About You
Read books peevishly while begrudgingly admitting
How much more talented the writer is than me
Muses, where have you gone?
Left me to further your Broadway career
Left me staring blankly at a cold computer screen
As my unfinished novel collects dust and cyber rust
Deceitful nymphs, you taunt me with your flighty ways
Appearing in dreams only to vanish upon
Awakening
Instead of reaching for a pen and paper
I reach for a glossy magazine to squander my lunch hour away
Damn you double for that!
Now I know more about Lindsey and Britney than Shakespeare!!!!!
My brain is mush but my house has never been tidier
I’ve even taken up clouds as a hobby (WTF!?!?!?!?)
And find myself writing in adolescent, internet shorthand (see line above)
I beg you Muses
Return to me so that I might feel alive again
If you don’t, I’ll blog Xanadu as the worst movie ever made
Set fire to every stage it’s performed on
So that you are as cursed by my presence
As I am by the lack of yours
It will be Macbeth reborn!
Muawhahahahahaha!
Please return to me
For I think I’m going insane
Oh oh oh! Pure heaven! How are any of us ever going to top this? Thank you Sandra for making my day.
Sandra, this is exactly how I feel right now trying to execute an elegy . . . it’s way to painful, but I have one taking shape . . .
Elegy for Billy
i.
I don’t remember standing in the drive-way reading,
overjoyed my letter was not returned, that this small envelope came back in it’s place
I opened it, thinking to find his face silhouetted in the slender handwriting on the page, perhaps a trace, a hint of his scent, it was after all his return address
First I thought it was his father’s death; the lines described,
How he walked across the street, lay down on his bed and went to sleep, which made me sad, but then I saw the III behind the name
Oh, but it took moments for brain to comprehend that was not the same, William Joseph Gautreau III passed away last month, he was buried on a July day. He always spoke of you with fondness, how startled you discovered ships navigating the canal from the second story window in his house.
From the Prairie to New Orleans, he said, called you Little Mouse,
Sadly written, his mother May
No longer could I now suspend belief, my screams gave no relief
That night naked in the shower on my new love’s shoulder I wept
Get over it my new friend said, you are years older, much bolder, and quiet sane
Just the same he held me tightly in the flooding water as I called the other’s name
ii.
He was a fun loving, warm hearted, generous, self-starting man
He never quit loving or giving some friend a helping hand
Thoughtful and playful he always made everyone laugh
An artist and craftsman his work made the magazines sell
He business was women, he made all their flaws turn to awes
He made me a beauty, perfection was me in his eyes
iii.
Sometimes I dream and he’s not gone; I fly freely on around the labyrinth of his house
Remember his stride, his winsome pride and the t-shirt he always had on
He’s in those Kaki pants, the horn-rimmed glasses hide his glance
I want to kiss the lisp upon his lips yet again
I watch once more, as he tore down the door between our homes
Took me in his arms, to relish all my charms, so eager he got caught in his zipper
I laughed till I crashed, but he didn’t think it funny right away
And now in my dreams, we remember how he schemed to get me layed
And everything’s alright, just the way it was that night
Billy and me in my dreams
Rosemary- Ha ha ha! Thank you so much! I’m so glad I was able to make your day. Thank goodness for John’s “30 poems in 30 days” or else I might not have written anything this month!
Connie- The song “My Immortal” by Evanesence began to play on my computer as soon as I started reading your poem and the effect was truly chilling. Thank you so much for sharing something so personal. I hope it was cathartic…
I sometimes think I specialise in elegies! Comes of getting older. But this one’s been a long time coming.
Elegy for Bill
Willem Johan Nissen,
b. Naarden, Holland, 21 Feb. 1936,
d. Melbourne, Australia, 10 Jan. 1995.
I didn’t weep for you
when our youngest with loud sobbing
phoned the news of your death.
Nor during his long calls later
distraught at 3 am, while I lay and listened
beside my new husband.
I didn’t cry at the funeral,
where some of your old friends didn’t know
we had already parted.
I’d done all my weeping back then,
stumbling alone through Melbourne streets
to file for our divorce.
The boys (well, men in their twenties)
cried enough for all of us
as we scrubbed your house for the wake.
Every so often we’d have to stop
for their overflowing tears and wails,
group hugs with shoulders shaking.
Or the oldest would lie on the couch
clasping the cushion to his wet face
while his girl stroked his back.
Steadfast in that turmoil,
her tact and empathy won my heart.
She hadn’t even met you yet.
And so she never did.
Too bad – you’d have liked her.
They’re seven years married now.
I didn’t even cry when I viewed your body,
though halfway across the empty chapel
my feet stopped. I said, “I can’t do this.”
One each side, our sons took my arms.
“Yes you can, Mum. You must.”
They were right, they knew. They’d done it.
And I saw you were not in the body.
I looked at your face suddenly old,
and touched the cheek with one finger.
When I’d cut the ties, earlier,
my instructor examined your photo
and said, “Oh, he’s not a bad man.”
I don’t know what she’d expected.
But it’s true – you were not.
We just grew out of each other.
It’s taken me twelve years seven months
to finally sit down and write
the end of our story.
And still I’ve said nothing
about you, who you were,
why I loved you and why I left.
There were so many adventures!
Perhaps now, one day soon,
I’ll be able to start at the beginning.
An Elegy for Quick Timmy
I have known you since the sixth grade my friend
Black hair blue teeth bad attitude
They were all there from then until the end
A heart that was built to rebel
When no one else would speak or dare protest
You spoke and said what came to mind
Without a thought to give to consequence
You got away with it each time
And I dubbed you the crown prince of bullshit
Talking your way out of it all
Despite a slight contempt for all your peers
You joined the groups I held back from
You sang Guys and Dolls with the high school choir
You joined the band without a note
You made your friends and more friends than I could
Or would have tried to make myself
And you shared them with me most of the time
Telling me what you thought of them
Making it clear that I was the close one
I was keeper of the secrets
You got out of this town quick as you could
Without quite a path or a plan
Which was the way you led most of your life
Denver London Cincinnati
You went where you wanted and each new place
Came with stories and adventures
You should have written down but never did
They are still stuck inside my head
Secrets I continue to keep for you
And jokes no one would get but me
Was it six months ago that you called me
Telling me you were coming back
Just as soon as you could get the money
And find a job to get you by
I must admit I knew you would not come
It was a good thing to hear but
No one ever has come back here again
And you were not the one to start
You were more of a myth than fact to me
Back here you would have been just you
So now I have to say goodbye to you
Sad you are gone but no regrets
I will miss the stories both true and bull
And I will miss your confidence
Thirty years and only one decent fight
Many laughs to remember and
So much too much that I will now forget
Without you to set my mind back
Goodbye true friend good friend my friend
I will I must now carry on
Dear Connie and John, both yours are moving!
Blight
We planted wisteria for you
last week
in cold, loamy soil.
It is dormant now,
awaiting your arrival.
Full bellied,
hands resting
on the curve of you,
she said as a child would
-This week
we’re growing teeth.
The next day
he turns the echo
away from her,
he says
-There is no yolk.
You never divided
to become one of us.
It falls to me
to keep a silent vigil
while she rides
the contractions of your passing,
to boil water,
make useless tea,
remove blood-stained towels
as you seep into the sheets
before her drained
and empty slumber.
In early spring
long racemes of purple
will hang above our doorway
but we can never
bring you home.
Blight
We planted wisteria for you
last week
in cold, loamy soil.
It is dormant now,
awaiting your arrival.
Full bellied,
hands resting
on the curve of you,
she said as a child would
-This week
we’re growing teeth.
The next day
he turns the echo
away from her,
he says
-There is no yolk.
You never divided
to become one of us.
It falls to me
to keep a silent vigil
while she rides
the contractions of your passing,
to boil water,
make useless tea,
remove blood-stained towels
as you seep into the sheets
before her drained
and empty slumber.
In early spring
long racemes of purple
will hang above our doorway
but we can never
bring you home.
I couldn’t agree more Rosemary…. Yours is incredible as well…. The visuals each one of these elegies has etched in my mind are miraculous. Thank you all for sharing these experiences which must have been nothing short of painful.
I saw good in you
You fought hard against it
I arrogantly believed I could help you be the best that you could be without obligation
You just wanted distraction and oblivion
I needed time out from the madness
You descended furthur into it
I chose to embrace loneliness as serenity and peace
You ran from it and it bit deeper
I left at 5am that morning - you were twitchy as I kissed your sleeping face goodbye
You were gone by lunch time ………… If i knew I would have woken you
[...] 8th assignment from 30 poems in 30 days… Elegies and [...]
Who knew: I found this chilling and poignant.
Thanks cerebralmum.
I find the quality of poetry here quite intimidating and this is the first poem I have ever (and I mean ever) ‘published’. As it is, in my nervousness and hurry to send before I changed my mind, I stuffed the last line that should have read:
‘if I’d known I would have woken you’
Who knew: I echo cerebralmum’s response to your poem, and applaud your courage in not only publishing here for the first time ever but also choosing such a deeply personal piece to do it with. I also admire the way you tell the whole story with such economy!
Thanks Rosemary
cerebralmum:I said it already on your own site, but want to say here too - your piece is not only heartbreaking but also very beautiful.
Who Knew — my goodness, I didn’t even notice the grammer thing in the last line — sure didn’t get in the way of my reaction. I too like the economy.
WK: I agree with the others. A very nice “first publication”. I hope you write more.
Elegies are very challenging, and I think everyone contributed great work. I hope a little catharsis was good for everyone.
Loneliness
A bitter hole
Made of dark and gray
A swirling world wind engulfs me
But never making me whole;
Sour pain kills me
My heart aches
My eyes show of this;
For everyone to see;
Pain constricts my chest
Darkness drowns my eyes
Emotions flood my body
And none lay to rest
There’s darkness in the fear of sorrow
A clan of mutants;
Here for the terrible up bringing;
For my past will always follow
Traction skips
Doubts fill me
Questions fog my view
My mind flips
Your stair stings my eyes
I know you judge me
Will you be no more?
Or will you just walk by
My feelings show
On my skin;
Arms body
And soul;
I tremble
My skin gets clammy
Your eyes show me
Pure judgmental;
This is my action
My scars, self inflicted
And all my emotions;
But full intention;
A pit of resolutions;
I dig in deep
To find you crawling in my skin;
And swimming through my body’s solutions;
A face of interest;
But split at the knee;
I see you here
A coach of infest
Desolation I crawl;
For one way;
To reach a crutch;
With unnecessary relief, I fall
Bitter turmoil
Hardships clasp
Final destinies show in your eyes
They shine like foil
Unforgettable feelings;
Floating in a wave pool
But then, if not too soon;
Sink…
I sit alone now
But just hits like a brick wall
A fist lurches my stomach
The smell of fear is foul
Where will this go?
Will it come to an end?
To see you walk away;
Or will your care show
Panic arises
My heart pounds erratically
My chest screams in anguish
A handful of surprises;
Will you stay?
Or will you go?
I can promise you this
I will never again stray
My body bleeds
I fall into my puddle
Drinking my way out
The way I feed
The wreck below;
Under construction;
Waiting for me
For now, my body stays below zero
My body’s river;
Frozen under my skin
Frozen droplets
Which never stir
When will this end?
About the time I come out
Though hiding isn’t secret
My life will you defend
This is the world I live in
Destroyed and bloody;
A hole of oblivion;
And non-stops in;
This is my life of confusion
Take it or leave it
My emotional earthquake;
Not much fun.
But here I am
In front of your eyes
There you stand
I take your rough hands.
I’ve been so cold
A heart of ice
For we will both
Act just as bold.
You take me
Even with scars
The depths of my soul
I’m afraid you’ll see.
I’ve cut and bled
I’ve screamed in vain
You take me for who I am
You’ve shared my bed.
Yet I still feel lonely
I’m being held back
From chains on my limbs
My past is haunting me.
I’ve been beaten
I was sexually abused
My heart has been torn
Lonely I’ve been.
(I put this on page seven, I’m sorry. I hope that you enjoy it.)
Cloaked at the beach
Going to the beach to get some clay
Excited to be free
In my own world though you were all there
My own place was all there was to me
Not knowing that you were afraid
That I was not like all the rest
You did not understand me well
I embarrassed you with some of my ways
I was blissfully unaware that I was not as I thought others saw me
Yet after years of steady denial the truth comes to me that I was worn away little by little
as I might watch you so gently patiently persistently sand away an annoying
blemish on a piece of wood
The sandpaper is fine,and like drops of water it is still effective.
My protective cloak persists like iron
Little do we know
After years of hidden fears that I cannot be what you want
I finally see that this is me
I really am ok
I strive to understand the disguises that are worn
never to be torn down
the hollow words
fragile, not lasting longer that a bubble blown in a childhood afternoon
but with me even still
Not intending to hurt
You felt it was best for me to learn the ways others can be
To survive
Beware
My childhood fears came out in the dark
When others were dreaming of my butterflies
I was being swallowed by the ocean that I loved
It frightenend me more than I understood
Unable to share my fears
Was the dream a trick to help me escape the hurt I never understood
To release what surely was anger
Because I was told this is the way it needs to be
You will do best if you listen to me
Don’t try that way because it may fail
What will others say?
My eyes did not open all at once
protection is a grand thing
Still here when I need it
So on the beach in the safety of the sun I could have things go my way
And now I see things through my own eyes
Where i know there is no disguise
I am safe
Not sure if this will even be looked at . Never did this before. Open and curious to comments ~
Thank you for reading
Elegy for Superman and for the Invincibility Preceding Cancer
For a while afterwards
you couldn’t find a superhero
who didn’t wear that black armband
with the S on it,
to show that he loved you,
that no matter how little clothing
he needed for his costume,
without you
he needed one more piece.
One time Debbie and I subwayed
to Times Square in our pajamas
on a Saturday night, to buy popcorn:
she chose caramel and chocolate.
I chose the size. Bag-and-a-half.
Is it any wonder you split in four?
When greatness retreats
the memory keeps
fragmenting, it just has to,
until at last the remains
(The Man of Steel,
The Man of Tomorrow,
The Metropolis Kid,
and The Last Son of Krypton)
are no longer so terribly
beautiful; that’s what
the dirt we pile
on our dead is for.
For years, Debbie and I talked
about learning to do those aerial
dance moves, the ones that,
at least in Gap ads, send a girl
into the air so rightly that there exists
a moment when you have to believe
that’s where she came from.
We never did it, though.
When you rose again,
like Jesus or Amy Weinhouse
or even Hillary Clinton,
your hair was long and unruly.
You wore it that way
for ten years.
A month before chemo,
unwilling to wait and see,
Debbie cut eight inches
off of hers.
That is a powerful poem. Thank you for sharing Saul.
CharlaX Epitaph
http://poetrypoem.com/cgi-bin/index.pl?poemnumber=811274&sitename=charlax&password=&poemoffset=0&displaypoem=t&item=poetry
CharlaX Epitaph
Underneathe the weather vain
Oblivious to the pain
Marking time inn aeons
Gathering no more gain
Holding on to EWE love
Waiting for the Lord HIS day
My pleasure, John.
I was actually working on a 365 day poetry blog project when I stumbled across your site. It’s a nice change of pace to have some additional structure imposed for a month of days. Thanks for putting this project together.
Saul Nadatas last blog post..Cone