Stir forsaken emotions
Act as a cleaver
Chipping an iceberg of longing
Trapped in my frozen sea
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
I will not keep this form upon my head,
When there is such disorder in my wit.
O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure!
By William Shakespeare
Spoken by Constance, mourning her son Arthur
Full text at : http://shakespeare.mit.edu/john/john.3.4.html
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,—so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.
by Edna St. Vincent Millay (February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950)
Sometimes the past digs me up
places me on show
for all the world to see
there is no funeral for grief
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond