Sad poems

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Dreams of a lifetime

© Ivan Donn Carswell

Ronald Hi Khong Wong is gone,
sadly he deceased
the commencement of this week.
It wasnt unexpected.

And the boys were dumb with wonder, and sat, and the Red Creek overseer
Was first to drop from the stockyard fence and give him a hearty cheer.
He raised his hat in answer and --- the golden hair floated free!
And the blue eyes lit with laughter as she shouted merrily:
"You can reach me down my bridle, give my girths and saddle back,
For the outlaw of Glenidol is a broken lady's hack!"

Dead mans clothes

© Ivan Donn Carswell

Growing up, I propose,
is like wearing a dead mans clothes.
Death has a way of levelling the ground.
I have found the closer your relationship

Crying to be written

© Ivan Donn Carswell

Dawn has reached the ridges to the north and a thin
line of light chased the night west; it is the best
time of day for me a cup of coffee, Benson & Scud
pretending to sleep in their baskets at my feet,

Cherry bomb

© Ivan Donn Carswell

I said goodbye and went to bed to die;
I never knew that they had lied was quite
surprised they didnt seem to care, I agonised,
refused to cry although in time the tears

Before the arthritis set in

© Ivan Donn Carswell

Its Wednesday, September 6th and a birthday,
again, these things arrive tediously on time
with wry regularity and sadly, no sense
of providence or charity.

In Memory Of The Late John Thornton, Esq.

© William Cowper

Poets attempt the noblest task they can,
Praising the Author of all good in man,
And, next, commemorating Worthies lost,
The dead in whom that good abounded most.

Death

© George Herbert

Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,
Nothing but bones,
The sad effect of sadder grones:
Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.

A final journeying

© Ivan Donn Carswell

And through a pall of sadness
feel he still walks tall and talks
to us with commonsense and
passion deep to stir our souls.

The Black Cottage

© Robert Frost

We chanced in passing by that afternoon

To catch it in a sort of special picture

The Other Woman

© Madison Julius Cawein

You have shut me out from your tears and grief
Over the man laid low and hoary.
Listen to me now: I am no thief!--
You have shut me out from your tears and grief,--
Listen to me, I will tell my story.

Autumn

© Thomas Hood

I Saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,

The House Of Dust: Part 04: 06: Cinema

© Conrad Aiken

The music ends. The screen grows dark. We hurry
To go our devious secret ways, forgetting
Those many lives . . . We loved, we laughed, we killed,
We danced in fire, we drowned in a whirl of sea-waves.
The flutes are stilled, and a thousand dreams are stilled.

The House Of Dust: Part 03: 10: Letter

© Conrad Aiken

From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees
The soft blue starlight through the one small window,
The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,
And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly.

The House Of Dust: Part 03: 09: Cabaret

© Conrad Aiken

We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence.
You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing
As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .'
Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only,
'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .'

Nocturne

The hill is like night against the clear sky.
Your head framed against it, barely moving,
and moving with the sky. You are like a cloud
seen between branches. In your eyes the laughter
and strangeness of a sky that is not yours.

The House Of Dust: Part 01: 05: The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain

© Conrad Aiken

The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn,
Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . .
One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him,
We bear him away, gaze after his listless body;
But whether he lives or dies we do not know.

The House Of Dust: Complete (Long)

© Conrad Aiken

. . . Parts of this poem have been printed in "The North American
Review, Others, Poetry, Youth, Coterie, The Yale Review". . . . I am
indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden"
in Part II.

© Conrad Aiken

How many times have I sat here,
How many times will I sit here again,
Thinking these same things over and over in solitude
As a child says over and over
The first word he has learned to say.