When I share two or three days of the week to compose poetry I find myself on the exam session when severe merciless teachers ask us to write about “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard!” Elegies mostly are unprepared and never find time to turn to the appropriate types! They ask me on and on...and I ask them in the consulting area that how can we turn my blossomy song to elegies unwritten about the parish of those people, long time ago had been lost exactly on the exam time? How could you expect me to turn my naïve feeling to one of the catastrophic ones? > < > time is over time is up time is running time flies > < > Teachers shout, “ HURRY UP” when will they shut up? I usually haunt by the bundle of words and circled with tumults of ideas as shining and variable as stars that like the savage river rush out to make me drowned. Very rarely I could find a way to breathe out. Elegies swirling randomly again and again to pose the question about whom shall we very soon defined, Mum? >...O darlings...< …motionless corpse, wandering ghost, dead people around, >.. not stars..< >...O… no..< Is there anybody nowadays to think about the “Country Churchyard” and elegies very appropriate to them at all, what a destiny! what a force! while a long time ago they were bestowed to the grand history of all mankind. O…no… Poor elegies remain unborn and sad in my thought…not forever… they laugh…and laugh…I can hear them, time is over and I’m a failure. < < <
The blank sheet is going to be filled by songs wearing the long red robe of emotional loves or lust…they are tired of black mourning cloth of demise! they laugh and laugh and laugh since > < I 'm a murderer…tapping with dirk ….or strangling with a heavy rope of my heart….bloodshed everywhere: drops from my fingers to the height. shout, scream and cry, they were innocent, don' t want to die. I can hear them. > < They are killed not to stay further in a cemetery of churchyard but to be born with a new style, either failure or corrupt…
"Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" is a poem by Thomas Gray, completed in 1750 and first published in 1751
In the dipping of the late year Sun you slip away, the winter seems much harsher now, colder or maybe I'm more fragile, see how I bow to place these blooms upon the stone when only darkness looms ahead.
I have yet a mile or two to go before the daffs begin to show and maybe then I can remember you without a tear breaking through.
A smile I'd gladly give if only we'd had one more year and yes, I know that's greedy of me, but I see only Winter and it's very cold.
Spare me the lecture, Father. I'm going to Hell and we both know it. Aye, and all your choirs and blather Won't but start me sufferin' years
Before me 'lotted time. Ye'd make The Devil's work a ****** sight quicker If'n I weren't deaf in both ears twice before me wake For all your moaning for me soul.
Spare me the lecture, Father. I'm going to Hell and we both know it Aye, and it don't seem right a man should suffer Twice for the same sin.
Being of working class Irish extraction and raised largely in the Maritime provinces of eastern Canada where a little blasphemy and a little more to drink surrounded me, this shouldn't surprise anyone. .