Primal Indeed

I have found Ms. Moore’s statement to be quite true in my life. Poetry is for me a natural medicine; a tool for untangling emotions when I am unable to speak for myself.

It has been like an oxygen tank allowing me to dive far deeper into feelings of pain, sorrow, betrayal, rage, joy, confusion, eroticism, ecstasy, or simple romance than I ever could on my own; and surface wiser.

Words woven together as poems, odes, sonnets or soliloquies, have many times over, been the balm to soothe the burn of a wound so deep I couldn’t find my own words or the fire I needed to overcome a situation deemed by others to be impossible.

The most powerful one I can recall is Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden, written in 1938. It was sent to me after our first son’s funeral, by an older cousin who knew me quite well. He knew me be to older in spirit than those around me believed. It voiced everything I was unable to scream. The fucking thing knew my heart; understood what I would never say out loud.

Many may know it from the movie, Four Weddings and a Funeral. I absorbed it at eighteen years old – far too young to dance with death and be able to recount the steps.

I wish that all would fall in love with poetry and discover its magical power to address that which is wrong within.

I could never, ever imagine a world without poetry or music (which is simply poetry to melody for me).


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 moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the 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 was 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.

28 thoughts on “Primal Indeed

    • Mine too, Bojana, mine too. His words sliced right through the ‘you’re young, you’ll have others’ bullshit being spouted by all the well-meaning co-mourners. Perpetual peppy fuckers. I wish we’d learn to just shut up and hug instead of thinking we need to fill in the silence death brings. I had zero interest that day to take a walk on the sunny side of life.

      I wanted to scream at them, but I was told repeatedly that everyone was depending on me to keep it together.

      So, Mr. Auden said so beautifully what I wanted to yell in their faces – ‘For nothing now can ever come to any good.’

      Nothing to say, darling girl. It was a notch on my timeline- you’ve endured much more. It was a life lesson and made me stronger than I had been. So I can’t not be grateful to my boy – he gave me Wonder Woman powers in his seven short days. Can’t be sad about that!

      Liked by 3 people

      • I don’t think anything compares to the death of a child. It’s hard for me to to say anything deep and worthwhile after such a confession. How about a long hug instead?
        And a poem…

        Heaven’s Rocking Chair

        Are there rocking chairs in Heaven
        where little babies go?
        Do the angels hold you closely
        and rock you to and fro?

        Do they talk silly baby talk
        to get a smile or two,
        and sing the sleepy lullabies
        I used to sing to you?

        My heart is aching for you,
        my angel child so dear.
        You brought such joy into my life,
        the short time you were here.

        I know you’re in a happy place,
        and in God’s loving care.
        I dream each night I’m rocking you
        in Heaven’s rocking chair.

        Liked by 2 people

  1. Rita, I know most won’t believe that a man without a human child can understand that depth of pain. I think you know different. The way you stated how poetry helped brought sharp focus for me. I see how the language has this power:

    “Words woven together as poems, odes, sonnets or soliloquies, have many times over, been the balm to soothe the burn of a wound so deep I couldn’t find my own words or the fire I needed to overcome a situation deemed by others to be impossible.”

    Your words are a gift I will need in the coming months and years, for I’d be a fool not to see loss on the horizon. Thank you for getting in front of this for me.

    Liked by 3 people

      • I know. Thank you for that though. For reading, and saying you love it.
        It is hard. And it looks like I might not see him tonight as the older kids are away. No babysitters. Maybe it’s for the best? I’ll see him here next week, where it’s comfortable and “our” place? Where we can talk without yelling, just be together?
        ❤️

        Liked by 1 person

      • That sounds perfect! I absolutely believe in your ever-growing sense of self-governance and awareness. I love most that you ask aloud the questions of life that you wish to have answered. I happen to kinda think, you are talking to the spirit of life and we are just mere witnesses; blessed to watch you find your own path.

        Liked by 1 person

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