A ramble of non poetry

I had some spare time today,
found myself outside the churchyard,
there was a man reading a book,
he turned to look, I ignored him.
The grass was nearly waist high
in places, apparently there are
rare flowers and species that grow,
I read about Mons. Couriard
who has the most impressive crypt
apparently he took a trip in 1846
to visit Marie Roubilliard
a lady of ill repute,
what met him there,
would surely raise even the
sturdiest person's hair;
she stabbed him until mortal death,
it is here his remains lie.

The graveyard is under attack
they want to build a police station there,
we all laughed at work at how rediculous,
yet more money to be wasted.
We love our churchyard more,
despite being encroached by
banks and carparks, an oasis,
although that sounds incongruous,
it is a memorial of rights,
of mothers who died in childbirth,
fathers who died at sea,
the prude and the just,
a measure of how death trusts,
that our remains will stay
untainted by the turn of times,
it is all a lie, tarmac will encroach.

When the man chose to leave
I took his perch beneath the stone
of Marie Anne Solange,
I couldn't read her last name
time, tide and lichen had erased,
she died aged 8 beloved daughter,
the names of her siblings inscribed,
none survived beyond that age,
it made me sad and yet not so,
there is peace here, where
out on the streets, cars roar,
horns blare, music scares
and indifferent footsteps pass you by,
I think I prefer the tread of ghosts,
they wear benign smiles
and cavort amidst the stones,
where the grass grows
a delight to a botanist,
I like to think a gift.




Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 562 times
Written on 2013-07-04 at 20:26

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
A pleasant ramble. I like the old cemeteries, too, but I'm always shocked by how many of those buried in them are babies and little children.
2013-07-06


Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
I think so too.
2013-07-05


countryfog
Every stone has a story, and unlike you how few care now to know them.

" . . . the living and the dead,
Young and old, gather where they are brought, some nameless,
Some victims and some conquerors, shamed and haunters,
The harrowed, the cherished, the banished
Or mere background figures." (Robert Pinsky)

Modern cemeteries are rigidly structured and sterile, lacking any grace of place. It is the little country plots "amidst the stones, where the grass grows" where one comes and hears their stories.
2013-07-05



What could be more natural than a ramble after a day spent in such a place? Rich in atmosphere, thick enough to cut with a knife, soft enough that it may be a butter knife at that.

I wish we could all learn to write non-poetry. There's a lot to be said if we could step outside the framework of our own habits and forms.
2013-07-04