Memorial
Posted: 14 July 2009
Word Count: 251
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Memorial
The stone is ready. In memory of
our beloved daughter - we accepted
the mason’s English lesson, to omit
‘loving’ before ‘memory’, or else
‘beloved’ before ‘daughter’.The last
of many declarations of this love.
Enough. These are all the words
the stone will say.
I have crossed the waste land, almost all the way.
I have stumbled over dead boughs utterly dry of sap, and heard
voices from roofless cottages. There was a beautiful
cold city, with black churches and gold palaces.
By luck perhaps, though not by courage, I have come through.
I have come to a coppice she never saw, not even from a distance.
Somewhere in the centre of her wilderness, she suddenly fell.
Perhaps she looked something in the eye
that I had closed my eyes to, or heard
in a moonless night a word more terrible
than any that came to me on the wind.
Sad spring, all green and red and yellow, the saddest I can remember.
Hostas shrivel in autumn, turn sick-yellow then shit-brown, their leaves
slimy and stuck to the soil, but come spring their undead fingers push
through, pointing and reaching. The stone is ready:
the black stone with the word beloved
will be set upright before winter. A few
red roses will guzzle their last water and cut-
flower food, and begin to rot. This stone
will stand through many winters. Weathered,
it will not fall when her name has lost its meaning,
and passers-by are strangers, carrying other flowers.
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Comments by other Members
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 James Graham at 22:12 on 14 July 2009
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I wrote this poem following the death of our younger daughter, who died last October at the age of 38. However, I mean it to be a public poem like any other. If it were purely private or therapeutic I wouldn’t have posted it. I’m aware that it may be quite difficult in some ways - difficult for example to justify some of the lines or sections. And I don’t think it’s the finished article yet - I feel it’s potentially a good poem but one that still needs attention. So please don’t hesitate to criticise.
James.
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 freynolds at 15:18 on 15 July 2009
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Hi James,
I think I understand what you mean by saying that it is public as opposed to private. I guess this is the difference between writing about someone or something and writing for or to them.
It is a little daunting to be the first to comment on this, but I'll try to be brave.
I liked your poem perhaps especially because it does not try to analyse too much. It is more to do with the present than with the past, although the past is present in it too. It has a certain air of detachment as if the poet is floating over and not necessarily physically there. I also sensed undercurrent bitter irony with 'the mason's English lesson' and 'turn sick-yellow then shit-brown'.
I found the poem very moving and very beautiful but I also had a sense that it wanted to say a little more, that you wanted to say a little more. Or perhaps in a slightly different way.
Weathered,
it will not fall when her name has lost its meaning,
and all passers-by are strangers, carrying flowers.
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This last stanza to me is a powerful part of the poem. I'll try to express what it conjured up for me; the solidity of stones, the anonymity of graves from long ago, a name engraved that means something today, that will no be known to people from the future, and if someone many years from now walks by, they will not stop. If they do, it will be to wonder about the person behind the name, not having known that person.
It also almost questions the point of the stone itself albeit its necessity in the now is undeniable, I think, but I may be wrong and have transposed my own perceptions (and experience of it) into it.
Fabienne
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 FelixBenson at 00:32 on 16 July 2009
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Hi James
I have been thinking about this poem a lot. Like Fabienne I hesitated to comment on this too – but taking your invitation for feedback, and just thinking about the poem and the writing as a ‘public’ piece...here I go:
You may not feel it is the finished article – but I don’t feel it is far off. It is very powerful.
The construction of it, and how it develops and the intertwining themes/images: the stone and the strangeness of it, the strong and bewildering images of life and death reflected through the natural world, the comparison of what will or won’t live through the winter, the luck of living longer or bravery in dying young– make the poem very rich. It has a lot of emotional impact.
For me the parts that really sing are:
I have crossed the waste land, almost all the way.
I have stumbled over dead boughs utterly dry of sap, and heard
voices from roofless cottages. There was a beautiful
cold city, with black churches and gold palaces. |
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and:
Perhaps she looked something in the eye
that I had closed my eyes to, or heard
in a moonless night a word more terrible
than any that came to me on the wind. |
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The rhythm and touches of internal rhyme really come across.
All I can suggest by way of criticism are some small cuts I think.
I wondered about the wisdom of making some of the sentences shorter – there is a stately tone in some of the longer sentences, but I thought there might be scope to make shorter (and more direct) the declarative statements in between (to reflect the declaration on the stone).
So here are a few suggestions that occurred to me:
In the first stanza, I wondered if this might be shorter:
to omit
‘loving’ before ‘memory’, or else omit
‘beloved’ before ‘daughter’. |
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Perhaps:
to omit
‘loving’ before ‘memory’ or
‘beloved’ before ‘daughter’. |
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I also thought about taking out from the final line of the first stanza. Although I can see this use of ‘strangeness’ is mirrored in the final stanza – and a sense of strangeness is carried through the poem, so I am not sure about that – but I like the sound of
Enough. These are all the words
the stone will say. |
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The longer lines have a stately tone which seems to fit – these sad declarations:
By luck perhaps, though not by courage, I have come through.
I have come to a coppice, which she never saw, not even from a distance. |
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and the single longer line here – this seems right:
| Somewhere in the centre of her wilderness, she suddenly fell. |
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But you have ‘perhaps’ in stanza three and five, and although I can see why the questioning might be present, maybe the following would be better if it was less passive:
| By luck, not courage, I have come through. |
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Likewise, the following line might be better, rhythm-wise and for impact, shorter, as follows:
| Sad spring, all green and red and yellow. |
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The interplay between the fallen daughter, the stone which stands ‘upright’ and endures, contrasted with the sense (almost of disgust) in the ruthless survival of the Hostas who seem debased but live through winter, and with the cut roses,...all this is incredibly affecting. The images are very strong.
I like the longer lines here, but wonder if the final line should be broken into two. Maybe my punctuation (a weakness) is not correct here, but something like:
Weathered,
it will not fall when her name has lost its meaning;
When all passers-by are strangers, carrying flowers. |
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Finally – although it seems wrong to love this poem... I do love the images of life in stanza two – the way they hit the senses - truthful but difficult to track and explain (– these reverberate like the best poetic images do). I also loved the image of reaching an age or stage as a ‘coppice’.
Thanks for posting this. It is a very good poem.
I hope these comments are useful in some way.
Best, Kirsty
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 Elsie at 20:48 on 16 July 2009
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Hello James
I’ve been away so long - and to come back to this is a bit of a shock. When I read it I thought it was terribly good, but hoped it was nothing real in your life. I’m sorry.
This bit struck me particularly – made me think your daughter was suffering from depression, perhaps had committed suicide.
Somewhere in the centre of her wilderness, she suddenly fell.
Perhaps she looked something in the eye
that I had closed my eyes to, or heard
in a moonless night a word more terrible
than any that came to me on the wind.
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Certainly suggests she was more sensitive than you feel you are.
I agree about the powerfulness about the hostas – conveying the ‘shittiness’ of life, and death.
The bit about the stonemason’s advice is so ironic, knowing you as a write and poet. But I guess mostly that advice is useful, with other clients.
The last lines very moving, as if you feel sad that once you have moved on, there will be only strangers to notice the stone, passing with their flowers for others.
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 joanie at 07:22 on 17 July 2009
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Hello, James. I love the opening. Yes, I agree with Elsie that it's ironic but it shows that you have had to put yourself into the mason's hand as he 'knows about these things'. I remember doing something very similar for a young girl at school who died. (I diodn't quite agree with the wording!)
I like your references to flowers and seasons, which is always close to your heart, I think, especially the precise description ofHostas shrivel in autumn, turn sick-yellow then shit-brown, their leaves
slimy and stuck to the soil, but come spring their undead fingers push
through, pointing and reaching. |
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followed by the simple and the line break.
This tells of the writer's difficult journey beatifully, through to the glimpse of the future. Realistically there will be a time when the stone stands but nobody recognises it.
A very fitting memorial. Beautiful.
joanie
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Felicity F at 14:00 on 18 July 2009
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Hi James,
There are a lot of themes to consider in this poem. There is the reflection on death and the passing away, the importance of a grave stone and what it represents,( and the words) the process of grief,the introspection and questioning of individual thoughts and the background of nature that frames it all; marking the time and place in memory.
All of these are interwoven well and at no point do I lose the thread of what is being said. I think that it may have been Fabienne that once remarked that death is a rich subject to write about. It holds both a fear and a facination; repelling us yet demanding our attention at the same time.
'I have crossed the waste land, almost all the way.
I have stumbled over dead boughs utterly dry of sap, and heard
voices from roofless cottages. There was a beautiful
cold city, with black churches and gold palaces.'
I particularly liked this verse and the follow on from it because of the repetive use of 'I have'. The tone is bold in its acknowledgement. May I make a small suggestion? (which you may or may not like)
I think that the use of the phrase 'I have' could be used more here to more powerful effect with a little alteration in structure. So for example, this is what I was thinking:
'I have crossed the waste land, almost all the way.
I have stumbled over dead boughs utterly dry of sap,
I have heard voices from roofless cottages,
and seen a beautiful cold city, with black churches and
gold palaces.
By luck, not courage,I have come through.'
As Kirsty says, the reworking of the last line here makes it less passive and fits in better with the tone of the previous lines and has greater impact. By use of the word 'Perhaps' there is an element of ruefel uncertainty with regards to all that has been felt.
There is also a nice balance of time in the poem. The pain of the past, the thoughts of the present, and the endurance of the future in the 'Stone'.
Felicity.
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Nella at 15:22 on 18 July 2009
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Hello James,
I've read this several times since you posted, and on each reading I feel it becomes more beautiful, more powerful. It's very strong and very moving. The strength, I think, lies for example in the very simplicity, unadorned statement, of the first one and a half lines.
Like some of the others I found this stanza especially beautiful:
I have crossed the waste land, almost all the way.
I have stumbled over dead boughs utterly dry of sap, and heard
voices from roofless cottages. There was a beautiful
cold city, with black churches and gold palaces. |
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But the fifth and sixth stanzas are also beautiful.
My eye was a little irritated by the unevenness of the lines, but I'm sure you had a reason for setting the poem out that way. It does reflect the way tragic events can alter one's life.
There were a couple of places where I thought the lines would read better if a word or a comma were deleted. For instance:
| I have come to a coppice, which she never saw, not even from a distance. |
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could be: | I have come to a coppice she never saw, not even from a distance. |
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And in the passage I quoted above I might delete the "and" and possibly pull "heard" into the next line.
| Hostas shrivel in autumn, turn sick-yellow then shit-brown, their leaves |
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Here I might replace "then" with a comma and delete "their".
But these are just small things. You've written a an excellent poem, James.
Best,
Robin
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James Graham at 19:16 on 19 July 2009
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Thank you all for your thoughtful comments. For a long time I was sure I would not write a poem about my daughter’s death, but after about six months or so it seemed to ‘want’ to be written. In particular, I found myself having odd reactions to the usual phenomena of Spring, resenting the inexorable growth of everything. ‘April is the cruellest month, breeding/ Lilacs out of the dead land’. Ideas and images started to form, and it went on from there. One of the reservations I had about the poem was the conspicuous presence of rotting plants, and the sense of disgust at them which I’m sure comes across, but from your comments this doesn’t seem to be a problem. This feeling of (almost) revulsion at spring awakening was something that triggered the poem, and so if it works maybe that’s what makes it work.
Fabienne, what you’ve taken from the closing lines is very much what I tried to put into them. It’s very gratifying to read a resume like yours and feel that everything has been communicated. Your remark about the poet ‘floating over’, being detached, and not being ‘physically there’ is quite familiar - other readers have said that about other poems of mine. I don’t feel detached, but readers feel it’s detached, and that’s fine. I prefer the voice to seem a little detached from what it describes.
Kirsty, you found the hostas and the cut roses made strong images, which again tells me that the first impulse of the poem is probably genuine and is one of its strengths - something I was doubtful about, or at least thought I had made too obtrusive. I’m glad you also liked the wilderness lines. Your suggestion for leaving out ‘in the strange garden’ is spot-on, and I’ve done that. Strangeness is implicit in just about every line of the poem. This was one line I wasn’t happy with, and it was the third or fourth attempt to fill in that bit of the poem. I could not for the life of me get it right - couldn’t see the elephant in the room, but you spotted it right away. On the longer lines though, I feel they mainly sound better as they are - a little long-winded. The only one I’ve shortened is the ‘coppice’ line, which Robin mentioned.
Linda, it’s good to hear from you again. Yes, it is something real in my life - but it’s remarkable how we move on, after quite a short time. Something has irrevocably changed, but ‘life’, surprisingly enough, ‘goes on’. You too found the wilderness images quite striking, and pick up the idea that she was more sensitive than I feel I am. She was much more vulnerable, certainly. And you were struck by the slimy hostas. I detested them for a while...how can they prolong their own dying, make a production of it in Autumn, and then shove their hale and hearty shoots up again defiantly in Spring? We humans, the highest form of life, can’t do that. Once we’re in the earth we stay there.
Felicity, you’ve picked out various themes and said that even though there are several related themes the poem doesn’t get bogged down. If it’s not too hard to follow for readers generally, that’s good. The poem is complex, as it turned out - sometimes you set out to make a relatively simple poem and all sorts of stuff comes crowding in. There are odd juxtapositions, but it seems to hold together well enough. On the change you suggest, I see why it’s a good alternative, but I feel that ‘There was a beautiful/ cold city’ suggests slightly better that the city left me cold, and I was somewhat estranged from it. It’s maybe not a very honest line, as I love most of the actual cities I have visited.
Joanie, flowers and the seasons keep turning up in my poems! Like repeats on television. Trees too - the dead boughs and the coppice. A little different this time, though - Spring this year seemed like Nature’s irony. I’m glad you liked the poem, even the sobering thought that in time no-one will recognise the name on the stone.
Robin, thank you for your appreciative comments. After inviting criticism, I’ve not taken much of it on board! But your suggestion for shortening the ‘coppice’ line is a change crying out to be made, and I’ve done that. I see what you mean by the unevenness of the lines, but for the most part don’t want to reduce the longer ones. This is one aspect of verse technique I find hard to articulate - I’m never sure why one part of a poem needs longer lines and another part needs shorter ones, so just cop out and call it ‘intuition’.
‘Coppice’, by the way, replaced ‘garden’ in that line. A lot better. Of course, a coppice is a wood of trees that have been coppiced - cut drastically to a few inches from the ground - and then allowed to grow again. Kind of chimes with other things in the poem.
Once again, thanks to all. I'm glad this poem came knocking, asking to be written.
James.
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.JPG) Zettel at 10:25 on 21 July 2009
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James
I can only begin to imagine....
I don't know the technical term but splitting a phrase over two stanzas is a technique you often use to such good effect. Here for once though the harmony of feeling and emotion for me wanted the penultimate stanza to end at 'rot' as if I had been led by the poem thus far to stand before the last stanza 'stone' and once there had reached a kind of ending; unwanted and unexpected but there - an encapsulated moment before the pain of turning away.
I also, rhythmically, musically if you will, found myself wanting to put 'other' before flowers at the end.
If poetry is a sharing; and I believe it is: it was a privilege to share this.
Mitsakuye Oyasin
Zettel
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James Graham at 19:45 on 22 July 2009
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Zettel, good to hear from you again. Thank you for this comment. I can see what you mean by saying the penultimate stanza should end in 'rot' but on considerstion I think I prefer to leave it as it is. However, your suggestion for inserting 'other' struck me at once as absolutely right, and I've made the change.
Hope all is well with you.
James.
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Ticonderoga at 14:43 on 01 August 2009
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I, for obvious reasons, will not make any technical criticism of this. I will merely say that I find it a beautiful and fitting tribute to a beautiful soul now tragically lost to us.
With great respect,
Mike
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 V`yonne at 16:00 on 01 August 2009
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Well, I'm reduced to a heap! James. Can't see what I'm writing... If this is something you want to share, I'd be glad to take it as it is.
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James Graham at 19:58 on 04 August 2009
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Mike, I appreciate this. Thank you. I hope all is well with you.
Many thanks, Oonah. Do you mean you want me to submit it to EDP? Is it not too long? If I do send it, it's up for criticism like any other poem! Once in the public domain, it leaves its personal sources behind - becomes its own thing. Like Wordsworth's poem about his daughter, which I can't resist quoting. Not his best work - but I think you get a strong sense that here was a real moment of grief.
Surprised by joy, impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport - Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind -
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? - That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
James.
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SarahT at 13:27 on 06 August 2009
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James,
I really couldn't find much that I didn't appreciate in this poem but in the interests of taking my first, tentative steps at poetry criticism, I thought I would just add a couple of thoughts.
First, I thought that the hosta verse and the last stanza felt particularly beautiful. On a very slight critical side, I wasn't entirely sure about the first stanza which felt as though it didn't read well but that may be the difference between an in the head reading and an outside reading, if you see what I mean. Somebody else suggested slicing out some of the words and that might work, if you haven't already tweaked it to streamline it. But I should say that this is really only a case of mentioning it for the sake of mentioning anything, rather than because it trips up the whole poem.
Sarah
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James Graham at 11:46 on 07 August 2009
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Sarah, thank you for your comment. There is something not yet right about the opening section. I've removed the second 'omit' from 'or else omit', an obvious streamlining. Apart from that, it'll have to wait. You may find this yourself as you progress with your writing - sometimes you feel dissatisfied with part of a poem, but if you try to fix it right away you get nowhere. For some reason it has to be left to...what's the word? Ferment, brew, simmer, stew, mature? You leave it for a while and then it's surprising how easy it can be to revise.
James.
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Joolz at 14:21 on 07 August 2009
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I feel that your poem really resonates with me, particularly the first stanza, about a life cut short before it's time and the ability (or inability) to express your full emotions when you suddenly find your private world dictated to by the status quo.
I really felt your frustration in:
Enough. These are all the words
the stone will say. |
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It is a sad acceptance and futility, which I feel ties in well with
it will not fall when her name has lost its meaning,
and passers-by are strangers, carrying other flowers. |
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To me, it expresses something private. The strength in the connection that you still have with your daughter lies not in stone.
Joolz
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didau at 21:11 on 08 June 2010
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James
I've just read this. Lesley would have loved it.
I don't know what else to say.
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