This Poem was Submitted By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2005-11-06 22:13:38 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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At Her Grave, and After

What’s left of husband, children, Children’s children, priest, Undertaker,  ancient cedar, Norway pine, Frank next door, Audrey, too - New neighbors.  Old friends. Birds - she knew them all. We shared the shovel; Threw neatly piled soil Into her pit; arranged the grass Just so - a lid - stood on it a moment - Oh, and her little grandchildren - Each threw one flower in And the priest’s cough reminded me (of her) More than the green granite urn And it was cold and rain fell And we ate ribs to the bone And no one complained About the too small room  Next to the pool At the Holiday Inn Where we gathered to feast - It being November, And dead now near a year, Leaving us to remember how.

Copyright © November 2005 Thomas Edward Wright

This Poem was Critiqued By: Jennifer j Hill On Date: 2005-12-02 13:54:56
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hey TEW, She'll be there for every Holiday, every... any... day... forever, in your traditions, the way you relate to children...wife...father... and in your vivid, fond memories. She does live on. Really nice tribute. I know from experience that sharing these helps not just us but others going through same. Happy Holidays, JJ

This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2005-11-28 18:47:58
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.71429
Thomas, I see the way you shortened this/no excess words. I liked it. You left room for me to imagine. I'm free to visualize my burial memories into the mix. Still your concern dripped through without saying so. great example to me. Thanks Dellena
This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2005-11-26 11:22:33
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.68000
And so it goes. But you remember don't you? This one's NOT a joke for sure.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Terry A On Date: 2005-11-11 00:16:36
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
It is the succinct economy of language and the way you build the day through simple detail, that is outstanding. "Ate ribs to the bone", most expressive of the final acts, finished; as though the life was cut clean through to the death. You evoked a warm intimacy of your Mother's life by naming people, mentioning her grandchildren. A shiver, by the cough. A respect by the reserve. An extreme ordinariness, a veneer, by which you subtley infuse with many meanings. Now, this poem bears examination because of the way you do this; and it is a fine honor of your Mother. Respectfully -The last line "Leaving us to remember how" does not seem supported in the context of what you have written here. The poem is so full of gentle memory. This line begins, it does not end. Terry
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Andrew Hislop On Date: 2005-11-09 18:19:33
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
TEW Some people just won't stay buried. That's what happens when you take shortcuts with standing on the lid. Haunting. MAH
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2005-11-09 15:18:34
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Ho, There it is againe: "ribs to the bone." I shot to mine that line is. My metaphysictheologicmythopoeiccalifragilistic self is obsessed with this line. You are a good son, a decent man. Even I am proud of you. And I have no stake (or rib) in the matter. Nox
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mell W. Morris On Date: 2005-11-09 10:13:18
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
t. I find your poem an important one because you give us "and After." The loss of the most significant people in our lives is one of the most devastating events we have to face. Since we are humans with diverse beliefs, we grieve in different ways, IMO. What works for one does not for another. But I cannot pass the memory at her grave for you have turned it into a "Dies Irae" as we Catholics call out during the funeral mass. There's a chanted dirge in "Undertaker, ancient cedar, Norway pine" and the lovely line: "We shared the shovel;" then we find "Oh, and her little grandchildren- Each threw one flower in". That is simply beautiful writing as you capture perfectly the way humans fumble through these painful events. And then through the cold November rain, you gather at a restaurant as November is a time to remember the dead and celebrate with a feast. And you end your evocative piece with: "And dead now a year, Leaving us to remember how." And t-bone, I have memory problems now...wasn't her name Purvis? I recall thinking she had a regal name that reflected her uprightness. Lovely, lovely.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2005-11-07 08:40:49
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Ah, yes lovely. I knew her, Thomas [or someone very much like her]. Thank you.
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