"condolence" poems
Visits of condolence is all we get from them.
They squat at the Holocaust Memorial,
They put on grave faces at the Wailing Wall
And they laugh behind heavy curtains
In their hotels.
They have their pictures taken
Together with our famous dead
At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb
And on Ammunition Hill.
They weep over our sweet boys
And lust after our tough girls
And hang up their underwear
To dry quickly
In cool, blue bathrooms.
Once I sat on the steps by agate at David's Tower,
I placed my two heavy baskets at my side. A group of tourists
was standing around their guide and I became their target marker. "You see
that man with the baskets? Just right of his head there's an arch
from the Roman period. Just right of his head." "But he's moving, he's moving!"
I said to myself: redemption will come only if their guide tells them,
"You see that arch from the Roman period? It's not important: but next to it,
left and down a bit, there sits a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his family."
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**ABRAHAM LINCOLN’S FAMOUS CIVIL WAR CONDOLENCE LETTER TO YOUNG ***** MCCULLOUGH ABOUT DEATH, LOSS AND MEMORY**
Executive Mansion,
Washington, December 23, 1862.
Dear *****
It is with deep grief that I learn of the death of your kind and brave Father; and, especially, that it is affecting your young heart beyond what is common in such cases. In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares. The older have learned to ever expect it. I am anxious to afford some alleviation of your present distress. Perfect relief is not possible, except with time. You can not now realize that you will ever feel better. Is not this so? And yet it is a mistake. You are sure to be happy again. To know this, which is certainly true, will make you some less miserable now. I have had experience enough to know what I say; and you need only to believe it, to feel better at once. The memory of your dear Father, instead of an agony, will yet be a sad sweet feeling in your heart, of a purer, and holier sort than you have known before.
Please present my kind regards to your afflicted mother.
Your sincere friend
A. LINCOLN.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 11:00 AM UTC
We enter the church and immediately
have to push through two dozen sobbing Italian women
dabbing dry eyes; their tissues only show
black and multi-colored smears. Amid the echoing
“Oh my Goawd”s, they lean down and kiss my sister’s cheeks,
but even in my best black cap sleeves, I am the taboo
to my cousin Janet, a woman as barren as the stone lot
in between her husband’s restaurant and Deihl’s Autoshop.
We find an empty pew, and watch as the men
stride down the aisle, contestants
in a cultural Miss America pageant where the wrong answer
gets you whacked. Their heavy brows
sink in condolence as they hand over stacks of bills,
every hundred becoming a pity penny
for all the moments Janet lost in her luxury-life
made shiny by diamonds and cars and fur coats
which can’t be cashed in for a second chance at a family.
The men have paid for the food, the china, the band
in the corner meant to fill the space of sadness—
a reminder that we live a lavish life.
My sister shifts in her seat and as a man walks
by she touches his jacket, and gasps.
He’s a god.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
I told myself I wouldn't write another **** poem.
I told myself reliving the same traumas
over
and over
would not aid in the healing process,
but these are not
the same traumas,
this is not
another **** poem,
there is just
so much ******* material
that it's starting to run together.
She went to a movie with him,
somewhere public,
somewhere safe,
and still he drug his hand
up her thigh,
she kept her mouth shut,
tried to push him away,
wouldn't want to interrupt the best scene,
whispered
"stop",
he didn't listen.
He was in his girlfriend's bedroom,
watched her sit in silence
fuming
when he said
"no"
for the fourth time,
told himself to
man up
when she said
"what, don't you love me?"
He swore he did,
he just couldn't show it like this,
she didn't listen.
She was at his apartment,
told him that morning
she just wasn't in the mood today,
she shifted inside herself
as he kissed her neck
the same way he had
hundreds of times before,
forced a laugh as she said
"I really don't want to,"
he didn't listen.
She was sitting on his couch
when he put his arm around her,
unwrapped herself from him,
he told her to
"just relax,"
became comfortable in a body
he was never invited into,
she got away,
called her brother from the next street over,
explained to him from the passenger seat
that she had said no,
he didn't listen.
I told myself I wouldn't write another **** poem
because I had convinced myself it wouldn't happen again,
had convinced myself that
my friends and family
were not a part of the statistic,
but every sobbing phone call
or hushed condolence
reminds me that
this happens every day,
that pretending **** culture does not exist
will not make it go away,
that 20% of human beings
in the United States
will be ***** in their lifetime,
that 20% of the people I love
will be ***** in their lifetime.
I keep telling myself
I will not write another **** poem,
keep reminding myself
to look at the facts.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
The rainy season is at
The door once again,
And loneliness has
Brought me a new pillow,
But who is to defend
My repugnant soul?
Can it be the Gods?
Hear this! The rain has
Began knocking at my
Slammer door gradually,
Oh no, it is knocking
And wailing so heavily,
With his icy voice
Of storm and cold
Arresting my hearty dreams,
But I will retch at his smell
And hurry for my handkerchief,
Where is my lantern?
May be, the native doctor
Has the answer to the
Cylindrical jar containing
Her eternal juniper organs,
Indeed, it is my misfortune
To go about with the priest,
For even the child of
The priest even dies at noon,
Ah, I thought she was
Vigilant and ever-ready
To make the debtors
Chew the palm kernels,
But she became the
Portion of the exterior of
The *** that skin can cover,
I have lost my heaven,
Oh no, I have lost the
One whose neck is like a
Bunch of small-fingered plantain,
I have lost the whetstone
On which I sharpen
My thirsty sword to
Perform deeds of valour,
Let the Gods weep!
Let the ancestors wail!
Let the people of Africa,
Give me condolence of
The talking drums,
For their child is gone,
The wise woman who cut
Her thumb in order to get
A wise husband is dead,
Mother, the Okro full of
Seeds of children and literature,
Efua Sutherland, the queen,
The toad likes water, but not
When the water is boiling,
Send me something
When someone is coming,
Efua Sutherland, the queen,
You and I exchange gift.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:58 AM UTC
I
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.
III
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
IV
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
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Drop by drop
How it was done
Condolence ripped eyes
Forever in the dusky light
Marching soldiers like water glides
Country by country for the moments pride
Still digging and digging for the new way
Like ant's used to do near a cozy place
Elephants were humble to nod and stay
Loosing temper was not his game
Like pond still and shinning on a full moon day
Meteors fall just to burn in the way
Bam.. explosion
If they land to celebrate a day
Elephants might not live to sing
A Happy.... happy Birthday
Who might survive
I guess ant's would stay
Coz they'll be hiding in their cave
Manisha
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
He worked at the War Department,
in the Munitions Ministry,
for the Bureau of Cannon Fodder
on the Condolence Committee.
“On behalf of George, our king,
and the grieving British nation
We regret to have to share with you
the following information….”
Passchendaele was at its height,
he’d written letters by the score.
On the Altars of Incompetence,
what’s a hundred thousand more?
It was the sort of sinecure
in which he took a certain pride:
Informing British parents
that their darling boys had died.
His department heads approved
of his selfless dedication,
recording for posterity
each man’s final destination.
Thus it was they failed to notice
when he received a telegram.
That day he went back to his flat
a changed and broken man..
When next day, his chair was empty,
and they received a telegram,
they were grieved to be informed:
He’d died by his own hand.
“On behalf of George, our king,
and the grieving British nation
I regret to have to share with you
the following information….”
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 1:24 AM UTC
FOR Mwima Zubair Naser
*(Gone too soon,when still in bloom
In the line of duty,what a pity)
In memory of you I'll always cry
I won't stop no matter how hard I try
Why do you have to promise
And then just pass on like this?
Especially when you are all gone
Leaving us in this world on our own
Did you have to leave this young
When I lack any beautiful speech
On my saddened tongue?
When the ball is still on pitch?
You had Samson's courage
Like a car with shocking milage
Did you have to go when I need you
Did you have to evaporate like morning dew
From the fragile petals of our youth
Did you have to join the boots?
It isn't fair to go when I cannot send you off
When I haven't condolence,not half a loaf
Did you have to go so soon
And leave my heart out of tune?
Say hallo to Wilber and the others
The thought of you all really bothers
I've never been one to say goodbye
And saying it will all be but a lie
To me you still breathe and live
That you're gone I cannot believe
I hope you made it through
And all these rumors ain't true*
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
I can't remember the last time I lived somewhere
that didn't have running water.
I wonder if it's actually happened.
We're moving a maximalist aesthetic
into a minimalist situation.
I just want a glass of water,
a hot shower,
a working toilet.
Ive never been so tired,
and I've never smelled so bad.
My leg are two masses of limp pain,
my hands are stiff, calloused wads of meat.
My right eye is experiencing a
mild swelling, that I'd ******* pray
isn't pink eye, if I believed in god,
which gets harder from here.
Illuminated in the dark of midnight
by computer light,
with only the tickings
of a cheap watch for condolence.
Their voices complain from downstairs.
Then laugh. Then return.
Trinkets chitter around.
Rooms full of garbage.
If you hit it softly enough,
can you still tell you're at the bottom?
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
*An unprecedented night with friends.
We were talking about the moon and the stars,
figuring out the constellations
that we were too young for,
and for some reason, love,
we were talking about you instead.
She declared that you've permanently lost
your dear lady, that I personally could not
do without. For some other reason, darling,
I was in awe of your beauty.
However, you were encompassed
in an aura of self-confidence,
and I couldn't believe you all along.
That smile never left your visage,
so I was left wondering how you do it,
making it seem like you've reached salvation easily.
This tear-stained paper I'm writing on
is my heart breaking into pieces for you.
You will always have my condolence,
my skinny love, and my worthwhile silence.
Never have I imagined being distraught this much,
for I am in a state of self-loathing,
despising how I didn't try harder to be
in your company.
To confront you,
and to endlessly love you.
But I'm sorry I never got the chance
to tell you how beautiful of a soul you are.
Maybe someday when you're truly jubilant,
with no fake smiles and no dry tears,
you'd read this poem and perhaps,
you may think of the girl who
let you borrow her pen
but left it with you on purpose
so she'd have a chance of talking to you again,
only to find out that you never gave it back.
Love, it's okay now because I have a wider scope of things,
and you may have been too occupied shedding tears for her
to pay some attention to my green ballpoint pen.
I forgive you.
And I hope you forgave me when I lied to you and smiled,
because in reality,
we are all sad souls with fleeting moments of happiness,
endeavoring to reach solitude,
with neither of us saying what we really mean.
And I guess nobody ever does.*
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
I soil the un-rippled surface as I break through it. I feel the cold water touching every inch of my numb body. As the water envelopes me, I sink.
Without a care I motionlessly fall. Staring at the once close surface of the water, now slowly getting farther from my reach.
Every second that passes a twinge of pain slices in my chest. A feeling of regret. Every second that I sink down into this oceans deep, dark, un explored grounds I get farther away from the chance of changing my mind. But I am sure of myself.
At least I was when I jumped.
My eyes scan the last of the light that I see coming from the surface of this endless water. My lungs begin to scream for air. My body is tempted to thrash around and panic, but in my mind I am as calm as ever.
Still, slowly sinking. Little bubbles begin to escape my mouth without my condolence. I watch as some of the little bubbles make their way up to the surface, dancing a sick dance of victory.
I being too slowly fade in and out of my thoughts. More bubble escape. I become more aware of the cold water that surround me.
Caressing my bare skin, calming me. Holding me. Doing what no one ever did.
In my last seconds of life I look around in the dark water unable to make out what I see and I silently say my goodbyes to the only thing in my company, the vast ocean.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
They hurried here, as soon as you had died,
Their faces damp with haste and sympathy,
And pressed my hand in theirs, and smoothed my knee,
And clicked their tongues, and watched me, mournful eyed.
Gently they told me of that Other Side --
How, even then, you waited there for me,
And what ecstatic meeting ours would be.
Moved by the lovely tale, they broke, and cried.
And when I smiled, they told me I was brave,
And they rejoiced that I was comforted,
And left, to tell of all the help they gave.
But I had smiled to think how you, the dead,
So curiously preoccupied and grave,
Would laugh, could you have heard the things they said.
1.5k
What makes you think
You’re human enough
Visions of light incinerated
And sepulcher demolished
Would never make you
As near as one
Seeing the outlines of
Wax statues
Or the inside of treasure box worn by year
Are just paths to a shallow valley
Of condescending condolence
And folie à deux
Where your madness
Never shares with mine
So my love, never bother trying
Even if you managed to take a flower
From the tree of life
The rest are just poison that force
You to succumb
Limbless
Mindless
Heartless
Shallow
With your guts arranged
In order
Like a marvelous slaughtertastic
Flower arrangement
That I used to adore
Before I perished
Knowing that I never wanted
To lit your soaked thread
With adorned pain
When you called me with names
Improper
When you accused me of
Disdain and betrayal
When you wrote me away
Like words too sad to be told
And when you insulted me
Like the horror you never accepted
Until you ask yourself
What makes me think
That I’m human yet
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
I don't want to reopen my old wounds
But it’s just the only thing I have left to do
There's nothing more to be said about me
Except for a condolence or a passing apology
Picking at the ***** scars, hoping for an infection
Hoping the festering bacteria would spread through
Hoping for sensation, or something maybe close
Hoping that these old wounds would feel brand new
I’m already too numb to ask for more medication
Already too debilitated to beg for a final miracle cure
I’m already too sick, far too late to try on and on
Already at the brink of extinction to still feel unsure
I’m opening old wounds, bleeding them out to dry
Doing everything they all told me not to do, only left out to die
There’s nothing more to be done, no band-aid left to rip
These old wounds seem useless when there’s nothing left in me to fix.
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 3:52 AM UTC
My Dad plays a game of "hide and seek" : A Tribute poem to my beloved Dad: Late George Maveli
_____________________________________
• My Dad plays a game of "hide and seek" :
• A Tribute poem to my beloved Dad: Late George Maveli
____________________________________
My Dad plays a game of "hide and seek",
Though in Intensive Care since a week,
But I know He is still sleeps by my side,
He still makes me happy by elephant ride
Putting me on his bare back to continue play
Taking his strong arms to go fast or to delay
And to repeat the black elephant's game
Making me to be happier and fame
• Top from heaven I heard
• a song of love from a bird;
• A sad word from my Lord,
• I still love you my dear Dad.
He died not too late in my hand,
but lives still in my own soft mind
I wish time wouldn't go forward,
then I would make a good reward
I try to have and repeat old memoirs,
my minds mostly turns to summaries
• Top from heaven I heard
• a song of love from a bird;
• A sad word from my Lord,
• I still love you my dear Dad.
I wish I had my dear dad by my side
The stories I hear about ocean tide,
To my eyes it brings more and more fear
Before I had to say good-bye, a drop of tear
I wish I had more fun time with my dear
My mom lets me know how much he care
Since I was too young to have love to share
• Top from heaven I heard
• a song of love from a bird;
• A sad word from my Lord,
• I still love you my dear Dad.
_______________________________________
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
_______________________________________
NOTE: I left my dear Dad (Late George Maveli) in the hands of my Lord Jesus on Saturday 19th July @ 1630 hours Indian time. He died at the age of 89, I am his eldest Son. I regret to express to all my beloved viewers and my well wishers of Hello Poetry. I shall post my poems after a weeks period of condolence - WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
In my mind
I have tried to logically conclude it
But my guilt takes over every time
It questions my intent and my perspective.
All that was beautiful in me,
my vulnerability, compassion, chivalry and even sense of humor,
are standing in the corner
heads down with shame
And I wonder
shall I stand with them in condolence
or lock them far away
so that I can focus on thinking
'Did I matter?' &
'Will I matter?'
This emptiness is real
so is my fear of its perpetuity.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC
Will someone please stop this spinning
I am ready to get off of here
Is there no one able to make time stand still
Or at least make today yesterday again
I look around at this rushing sea of faces
Arms reaching out to me
Expressing sympathy because you are no longer here
I just want them to all go away
I do not want their sympathy, I want you back
I want my life the same as when I fell asleep last night
Asleep in your arms
Knowing I would see you in the morning
I look around at all of these sympathetic faces
Accept every condolence offered
Knowing that tomorrow they will forget you existed
The world will keep spinning and I have to stay here
Remembering, that you existed
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 4:46 AM UTC
run away
run away again
I'll be alright alone on the street
again
your words are consuming my mind
your poetry is eating me alive
and you, you pity me
misinterpreted thoughts
but I was never easy
if it's any condolence to you
I cannot condemn you for anything
although an apology is long overdue
you didn't call
you didn't call again
I'll be content alone in my room
again
you have a rough touch
you say the world's in your hands
I won't understand
you made my dependency a point
so you could surrender
and the city lights could burn more than ever
go to sleep
go to sleep again
I'll be fine on the floor
again
"you were never a regret"
nicotine breath
you told me through a cigarette
nights haunting words
add to my guilt
and the fate of your bones
my veins made known
I cannot condemn you
it's too confused
Aug 5, 2010
Aug 5, 2010 at 12:24 AM UTC
I am afraid that unknowing strangers
will brush against me in the street
and I will catch a glimpse of eyes
that smile in pain as I silently weep
I am afraid to touch another's hand
only in pure condolence
to have said hand grasp me tightly
to lay underground with them, in Silence
I am afraid to be who I am
I live outside the norm
at the very end of Unusual street
usually a haven to a Perfect Storm
I am afraid you patronise me
because I whip you without fear
of becoming your ******* mistress
I sting, I disappear
I am afraid of letting the spaces
that crack beneath my feet
to swallow me whole
and I have to admit defeat
I am afraid to reveal to you
the darkness you so despise
I am afraid I am that darkness
I am afraid you will open your eyes
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 3:09 AM UTC
Sorry I was too cold too barren too early too young
Now I've got me an ice gun
Apologies for you being too angry too chaotic too quick too soon
You don’t make sense
Never did the stories but time well spent
Sorry I was too impatient too outspoken
Apologies for you never listening and always understanding
Gratitude for you who learned neither the sun nor the earth was the center much too late
Condolence for you who learned not to share and became too greedy
Sorry I became lonely
Sorry I made fake
Sorry I wasn’t happy
Sorry I’m not very sorry
I keep apologizing but I’m not acting truthfully
Sadness and anger and joyous for wordplay
Too human not enough animal
Too complex not enough basics
Tell me this and I’ll ask you to think about that
You said sorry you’re were too philosophical too sympathetic too much too often
I replied don’t worry you’re exactly who I thought you would be
Too self centered too filthy and too rich
Uncaring and relentless too powerful and never the switch
I asked for equality but you said you were sorry that goal is too out of reach
Too futuristic too immoral never to be enough
That that work be left for God it is too pure and too good
Humans possess all the evil and no just so there can never be peace
So tell me when does torture become too inhumane?
Too much pain and never enough questions or answers to give
Answer me not with black tongue but truth and honesty.
I am not a child once was though still deserving of maturity
But you never gave me any said I was too innocent still blossoming
Fed me lies about people I needed faith to believe in
Sorry I was too smart too witty to follow in your steps
Apologies for putting this burden, these words to your chest
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
Seeing you again after the last kiss,
Never thought would be such a bliss.
Even though the meeting was for sometime,
It has given me memories for a lifetime.
I will cherish them now and then,
Remember us in the thoughts rain.
For giving me something special,
This is a token of appreciation.
You are leaving once again,
Across the thousand oceans.
Tears that fell during the moment,
They are my one and only condolence.
For what could have been, and how it really is.
Still I will be at this shore,
Continuing with my usual galore.
Some things better left undefined,
What I felt for you will always be alive.
Even with our separate lives,
I will keep thinking in my mind.
So was that our last kiss?
Before I see you again...
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC
In this alien world
We hug the warm air for comfort.
Hundreds of secrets slithering from our lips,
Through bed sheets,
making their way to dim skies
and settling as stars;
permanent fixtures of our past,
until sunrise.
In early morning hours,
With heavy lids,
We make mistakes.
Basking in our sweet calamity
as we cautiously pluck heart strings.
But after we wipe the sleep from our eyes,
The night’s intoxication forgotten,
We take our shaky legs back home
And turn to the winds for condolence.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC