W. H. Auden: “Funeral Blues”

Tania Sheko
Aug 2, 2018 · 1 min read
Abbas Kiarostami, Roads, Rain and Glass,

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Poem of the day

Poetry selected by Blair Mahoney for his English classes

Tania Sheko

Written by

Put me in a box and I'll crawl out. Teaching person who ended up in a library. https://about.me/tsheko

Poem of the day

Poetry selected daily by Blair Mahoney for his English classes. Images found by Tania Sheko, most selected from the curated collections of Stephen Ellcock on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/stephen.ellcock and Instagram https://www.instagram.com/stephenellcock/.

Tania Sheko

Written by

Put me in a box and I'll crawl out. Teaching person who ended up in a library. https://about.me/tsheko

Poem of the day

Poetry selected daily by Blair Mahoney for his English classes. Images found by Tania Sheko, most selected from the curated collections of Stephen Ellcock on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/stephen.ellcock and Instagram https://www.instagram.com/stephenellcock/.

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