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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
Terry Collett Jul 2016
Summer's day
and Jane and I
were lying on the grass
in the churchyard
in an area
where there
were no gravestones
(at least not at that time)

birds flew overhead
and cows mooed
from over the hedge
from the fields beyond

do you think
of me often?
Jane said
turning to gaze at me
not the sky

most of the time
I said
looking and taking
in her dark eyes

what do you think
about me?
she asked

I looked at her lips
thin lips
and opening and closing
as she spoke to me

think I love you
I said

she looked away blushing
how love me?
in what way?
she said
her eyes watching
rooks overhead

not ******
love you for being you
I said
pushing thoughts
of Lizbeth from my mind
knowing to even mention
her name would
cloud the day

not ****** not lustful?
she said

no of course not
I said
(but was it
totally true?)

her eyes followed
a swift go by
in the sky
do you think of her?
Jane said
looking at me
letting the swift go off

her?
I said

Lizbeth
Jane said

I try not to
I said

do you lust
after her?
Jane said quietly
as if she thought
the cows might
be listening

no I don't
I said
(but did I?)

I love you
Jane whispered
in my ear
a breathy sentence
words warm and soft
like marshmallows

ditto
I said

she kissed my cheek
then lay on her back

I couldn't imagine
her ever wanting ***
she seemed too pure
for such

unlike Lizbeth
who would have
****** me off
as quick as look at me
but I didn't allow
even the thought to stay
in my head

my mother likes you
she said
and trusts us

I liked her mother
in a kind of
careful as I walk
kind of way

Jane held my hand
at her side
her hand in mine
fingers intertwined

a swallow flew up ahead
graceful and smooth
and quickly gone

Lizbeth would turnover now
I mused
and climb me
and be on.
BOY AND GIRL IN CHURCHYARD IN SUSSEX 1961
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.
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
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.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)

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