Anthology Plan

Theme: Grief and Loss

Why I Chose this Theme:

Some things in life we simply do not understand and death is one of them. It touches the lives of every single person whether it is a friend, family member or others. It is an event we all fear and dread but have to face sooner or later. Along with the death of a loved one comes grief which is a common human experience. Grief is a normal and natural way for people to cope with loss.

On June 15th, 2005, I had to say "Goodbye" to my Mother as she took her last breath of life. After two years of pain and suffering, she finally was set free and all I could do was weep. People need comfort and encouragement following such a sad time of loss. Emotions that come to mind while experiencing bereavement are - deep sorrow, sadness, grief, pain & suffering, depression, fear and yes, even anger. My desire is to provide support and comfort to those mourning the death of a loved one through poetry.

My Goals for this Anthology:

Poetry has a way of getting straight to the heart. It opens up feelings of reflection, remembrance and brings inspiration to the soul! This blog is all about bringing hope and designed to give encouragement as one goes through the stages of grief. The five stages one could experience is: denial, anger, understanding, depression, and acceptance. Everyone in the family is affected and it differs in their ways of coping but all I want to say is, "There is hope!"

If I could give this a title, it would be - "Grieving With Hope." I once wrote a poem for a newly married couple who lost their tiny little baby boy who was stillborn. At the funeral, next to the tiniest little coffin I had ever seen, I recited the poem. To this day, the couple lets me know that this poem brought such comfort to them! I'll never forget that I was used as an inspiration to ease someones grief at a very heartbreaking time in their lives.

Words of sympathy are often not enough when one needs heartfelt healing. This is my goal in life - to make a difference in any way I can. I hope everyone will find comfort as I share these poems. Thank you and God bless you!

Five Poems of Death, Grief and Loss

It Hurts to Lose... a Special Person
By Amy Ross Mumford

When death takes your special person,
It hurts.
It hurts in the middle of the day,
In the middle of the night
And in the middle of your stomach.

It hurts to lose anyone who has a
special place in your heart.

At first it isn't real.
It's just a nightmare.
Everything will be all right in the morning.

But of course, it isn't.

Morning brings reality,
Mercifully dulled by shock
And a feeling of numbness.

Like a robot you move mechanically through
the seconds,
the minutes,
the hours of the next few days.

Oh, God, how can I endure
this un-welcome,
this un-acceptable,
this un-movable crisis in my life?

There is a way that you can.

When death takes your special person,
Reach out.
Reach out and share the tears,
The sorrow of others.

Others who also hurt.

You'll be less alone in your sorrow if you
reach out in comfort and understanding to
someone else.

Let the spotlight of grief draw you,
your family and friends together
In the circle of its light.

Check out the poem in it's entirety on the link below:

http://books.google.com/books?id=DWtwfXtoEBsC&lpg=PP1&ots=L2Z0wbwB-y&dq=it%20hurts%20to%20lose%20a%20special%20person&pg=PP1#v=onepage&q&f=false

Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep
Mary Frye
I Did Not Die

Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.

Note on Authorship of poem

Written at least 50 years ago, this poem has been attributed at different times to J.T. Wiggins (an English emigre to America), and also Mary E. Fry, Melinda Sue Pacho and Marianne Reinhardt.

It also became very famous after a British soldier, Stephen Cummins, was killed in Northern Ireland and left eft a copy for his relatives. Others claim it is a Navajo burial prayer. with an anonymous

The most widely circulated author is Mary Fry.

The following was taken from The London Magazine December / January 2005:

Mary Elizabeth Frye nee Clark was born in Dayton, Ohio, on November 13th 1905. She dies on September 15th 2004. Mary Frye, who was living in Baltimore at the time, wrote the poem in 1932. She had never written any poetry, but the plight of a German Jewish girl, Margaret Schwarzkopf,who was staying with her and her husband, inspired the poem. She wrote it down on a brown paper shopping bag.
Margaret Schwarzkopf had been worrying about her mother, who was ill in Germany. The rise of Anti-Semitism had made it unwise for her to join her mother. When her mother died, she told Mary Frye she had not had the chance to stand by her mother's grave and weep.
Mary Frye circulated the poem privately. Because she never published or copyrighted it, there is no definitive version. She wrote other poems, but this, her first, endured. Her obituary in The Times made it clear that she was the undisputed author this famous poem, which has been recited at funerals and on other appropriate occasions around the world for seventy years.

A 1996 Bookworm poll named it the Nation's Favourite Poem"[London Magazine Editor, Sebastian Barker

http://www.poetseers.org/poem_of_the_day_archive/twoth/do_not_stand_at_my_grave_and_weep/

The Dying Child
BY JOHN CLARE

He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.

His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
He knew those children of the spring:
When he was well and on the lea
He held one in his hands to sing,
Which filled his heart with glee.

Infants, the children of the spring!
How can an infant die

When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass, and such a sky?
How can they die at spring?

He held his hands for daisies white,
And then for violets blue,
And took them all to bed at night
That in the green fields grew,
As childhood's sweet delight.

And then he shut his little eyes,
And flowers would notice not;
Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,
He now no blossoms got;
They met with plaintive sighs.

When winter came and blasts did sigh,
And bare were plain and tree,
As he for ease in bed did lie
His soul seemed with the free,
He died so quietly.

John Clare (1793-1864)

http://www.poetseers.org/poem_of_the_day_archive/twoth/do_not_stand_at_my_grave_and_weep/

A Daughter of Eve
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
A fool I was to sleep at noon,
And wake when night is chilly
Beneath the comfortless cold moon;
A fool to pluck my rose too soon,
A fool to snap my lily.

My garden-plot I have not kept;
Faded and all-forsaken,
I weep as I have never wept:
Oh it was summer when I slept,
It's winter now I waken.

Talk what you please of future spring
And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow:—
Stripp'd bare of hope and everything,
No more to laugh, no more to sing,
I sit alone with sorrow.

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=174259

A Thing of Beauty
By: John Keats

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

http://www.poetseers.org/short_poem/the_romantics/john_keats/the_poetry_of_john_keats/a_thing_of_beauty/