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Son Elegy Poems | Elegy Poems About Son

These Son Elegy poems are examples of Elegy poems about Son. These are the best examples of Son Elegy poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Elegy |

Your Living Marked My Heart

Do others think of you the way I do?
The embryo that grew beneath my heart.

There is so little proof you lived . . .
A metal marker on a grave,
A lighter, a wallet
That they gave . . .
Two certificates, official,
Like parentheses -
Beginning, 
End.

I sometimes see your friends . . .
On those days,
You seem alive in little ways.

Do others think of you the way I do?
The boy who grew into a man,
Unspoken dreams, unfinished plans.

There is so little proof you lived . . .
Some childhood books
And art, and yet . . .
How deeply carved
Your living marked my heart.


March 5, 2014


Details | Elegy |

Back Door Side Door Front Door : Which door might a Confucian take

 
                   for René Etiemble  (Jan. 26, 1909 – Jan. 2002)*

 

 Barely a few speechless moments before your first words

           burned the « Coplas por la muerte de su padre » :

            

            ‘Nuestras vidas son los ríos       

       que van a dar en la mar,

       que es el morir ;

      ………………………………

       y llegados, son iguales

       los que viven por sus manos         

       y los ricos.’

 

      Is the open back door which emboldens courage

No untarnished name to be remembered by

No selfless mate to lay by your honour

       No issue laying about themselves for your prize

 

       Decidedly it was a door of stealth

As if choosing it  you let it be known

you were only merely passing by

       and stopped to hang your hat here for a while

 

Yet you let your kin and callers believe

      your whims were worth putting up with

      your mischievous tantrums and gripes

merely the mental athlete’s unwinding antics

 

The poïetic birth pangs of imminent glory

      just the mounting stones in the monumental lighthouse

that ages from hence would pick forth

      your works  your unfathomable literary resource

 

You upheld dozens who did leave behind a name

     a lasting name  not quite torn from solitary pain

Yet who could deny you could have bettered their fame 

     What undisclosed pain you harboured in your brain

 

Oh so strangely were you endowed with the intelligence

     of the Chun Tzu - that uncanny eagle’s scan

To rout out of the mazes of your students’ past lives

      just that one passqge through their Tierra del Fuego

 

But then you who completely espoused the rigours

      of that step by step mounting of respectful steps

Were unsparing in your demands of adherence

      to old Master Kung’s hierarchical obedience

 

An open hand ready to sign any cheque

      to succour the caller’s needs

     was alas ! also the whip hand

To keep the renegades in constant check

 

You were possessed of a rare brand of anger

      which shook the land about you

At those who bent justice to their unsavoury will        

      such thunder boiled from the guts of the earth

 

Now you’re gone and empty lecture halls echo your

     uncontainable ire where forged resounding silence

You said at the start of a seminal master-seminar :

     « Nul n’est prophète dans son pays ! »        

 

With the distaff side hanging on your every word

     wondering if your plans were for something yet undone

 

No stray notes lie about to record your travail

     No visible correspondence to make it all credible

Only books and books  files magazines and books

     and an overcrowdedly conquered mental pad                                    

jumbled words scratched into shaded inchoate sketches

     ganglia synapses   shot-up neurons

 

     no clues to a ragingly flailing mind

           none to record the lives you succoured

                   nor even the beneficiaries’ hurriedly scribbled thanks

          nor besides to the beclouding relations with one and all

                 not even a hint at why you may have refused

                        to forge a name beyond the beaten path of fame

 

Would going by the front door

in a fanfare of tv talkshows conference papers prize-giving ceremonies paper- interviews in ample studied poses and thoughts for future auto-memoirs volume one to seven the rest put-together posthumously in an omnibus

expurgated version with prefaces notes introductions critiques eulogies

 

          would it have been less like you

                                          to exit by the side-door   

the baywindow leading to reflected glory

     in a cool cloister of loosened leaves

stray poems in the tradition of your schooled masters

 

or did you burn them all

                                                in a fit of (cou)rage

     tore them to bits   incinerated by your fiery mind 

                     or squashed within yesterday’s leftovers

 

not caring who thought what

                     the mocking condescension

                       towards

 qu’en-dira-t-on

 

* The late Professor René Etiemble held the Chair of Comparative Literature at the old, pre-1968 Sorbonne University but retired in 1978 while a professor at the Sorbonne-Nouvelle University. In later life, he even refused nomination to the French Academy of Letters, though he did accept the Academy’s Prize. He was a prolific critic, essayist, and memorialist, having published some poetry and three novels. A renowned linguist and grammarian (a graduate of the prestigious and elite Ecole Normale Supérieure de Paris), he remained until his very last days an inveterate Sinophile. He edited the Gallimard-instituted UNESCO oriental literary classics series, a fitting tribute to his encyclopaedic learning.

© T.Wignesan,  6 novembre 1997, Fresnes-94, France  (from the collection : Poems Omega Minus, Paris, 2002)

 


Details | Elegy |

When We Die

When we die: A war cry
To all people who gave their life for Kashmir in pursuit of justice for suppressed.

We are murdered. Bodies are shattered. Our Jhelum to Euphrates, Our Kashmir to Karbala. 
My eyes hear. My fingers speak. And my heat pains.
Lovers of Husain rip your limitations with chains.
Stand resolute in Karbala-reborn. In its heat. Vanish not! Your flames.

Show no fear in your eyes but give a cry
Death will bring us home. So we die

Times of glory went into ruins, but don’t sigh
The days of hope will be reborn. So we die

Blood bathed infants are we: this no one can deny
Water of freedom waits for us. So we die

Handicapped soldiers they have turned us, still our zeal is high
With weapons of light we will march. So we die

OH! You bureaucrats from the plains, your innocence is a lie,
We will set your tongues ablaze. So we die

One day you will cry that you can’t deny
We will bring the time soon. So we die

Keep your eyes dry my mothers, for you must know why
Your tears will cause floods. So we die

Don’t loose hope! My people, you still have threads to tie
Every drop of our blood will be resurrected. So we die

A coffin runs out in Lal chowk, scratch the earth for space
The white, will wake up angles of wrath. So we die

Land of Hamadan has been painted with blood
The lava of agony will burst. So we die

Keep the bangles in your arms, you widowed brides
Their music will shake the earth. So we die

Suppressed mortals are we, but Listen OH! Self made immortals  
Immortal passion of Muhammad runs into us. So we die.


This fire of celestial blaze! Fuel it up with your rage. Defy the impossibilities with might
You will go down through history as the brightest stars shinning in darkest nights.

SOME WORD MEANINGS:

Karbala: place in Iraq where grandson of prophet Muhammed(SAW) were killed.
Husain: Grandson of Prohet Muhammed killed in Karabala


Details | Elegy |

My Kashmir Burns (Part 4)

I picture Kashmir through lightened KL. I see Kashmir through deserted eyes.
I am writing an elegy. While my Kashmir burns.
My blood has contents of a coward. 
What results my thoughts will forward.
Tears have dried. Heart has cried.
My pen drops dead. Its enough, there is nothing to hide.

It’s his anniversary again. I forgot this day again.
I pray for his soul. While my Kashmir howls.
I can write no more. My pen drops dead.
But mouj Kashir wails:
Bullets won’t stop
Young souls will depart.


MEANING OF SOME WORDS FROM PART 1,2,3,and 4

Kashmir: Usually called "Switzeland of east".A disputed state. Presentely annexed by
India. There are almost 1 million army personals in kashmir. People are fighting against
their opression and anarchy. UN still declares kashmir as indepent country.

KL : Kuala lumpur. Capital of Malaysia.

Karbala: place in Iraq where grandson of Prophet Muhammed(PBUH. prophet of Islam) and his
followers where murdered.

Imaam: Person who is incharge of a mosque(muslim worshipping place)

Patan and Sopor: two districts in Kashmir

Kupwara: A district in kashmir were Indian army violates human rights at its best.

Mahjoor: Romantic Kashmiri poet

Khayam’s: A place in kashmir known for its barbeques.

Jhelum: a river that flows through Kashmir

Shah-Hamdan: A scared place to kashmiri's.

ninder yee nai. Gahas Kormakh Khudayas Hawale: kashmiri translation of "Let you
sleep.Goobye May God protect you" 

Madrasa: Place where children are taught Quran(holy book of muslims)

Gulistans: gardens of exquisite flowers

kaasmir: Kashmir in Indian accent. Usually people from other states of India pronounce
like that.

Dastegeer’s: scared place to kashmiri's

Maisuma : a place in kashmir where confrontations with Indian army are common.

Azadi: freedom in Urdu language.

Jinazah: a prayer offered when a muslim dies

khansaib-bun: a village in kashmir. known for its hills.

mouj Kashir : kashmiri translation of " mother Kashmir"


Details | Elegy |

My Kashmir Burns (Part 2)

Another son is dead, until five he lived.
For his long life at Shah-Hamdan he had threads tied
“Shehij ninder yee nai. Gahas Kormakh Khudayas Hawale”, his mother cries.
No news can penetrate across the mountains. Satellites work here no more
My Kashmir burns. And no one knows.
An old woman with torn scarf sits besides fire. While feeding her neighbor’s child
She sighs. Is my son dead or alive? She silently cries.
In Madrasa I hear children reciting Quran. A girl’s come out dragging her feet.
I remember her from somewhere. I remember her seeing naked. 
Oh! God she is the one who was raped.

Nights have turned pitch black. My eyes are losing the habit of sight
Midnight soldier’s set another house ablaze. At least there is some sort of light.
Many letters have been written to God. Postcards posted of those raped girl’s 
But its curfew again. No post office deliver’s the message again.
Death comes from everywhere. Close your windows mother
For bullet respects no womb. It turned Gulistans into tombs.
From the plains the visitors come to visit their God’s
They are our only witnesses but hypocrites at heart.
They say paradise is kaasmir. While my Kashmir is ablaze
They testify against us. Is anybody witnessing this? No one at all
Be witness to at least this. Open up your eyes my Lord!

When paradise is painted with colors of hell, certainly divinity loses its grace
In the news the reporter is beaten. Bamboo sticks are hungry for human blood.
Let Kashmir go to hell. A new promise in their portfolio.
Threads have given up at Dastegeer’s place. Even they are horrified at our fate.
In Maisuma boys are dragged by police. They close their dreams, end their screams
In a police gypsy.
Men shape into monsters when they are given right to anarchy.
The gypsy drives them into the dark cantonments. They will remember this day
Interrogation officer comes. After celebrating his son’s birthday.
The winds from the cantonments bring their news
Burned tires around their necks. Burning stoves near their heads.
The knife tearing up their flesh.
And the boys cry, “We haven’t batted yet. Cricket. We know nothing”.

Death wants children to be headlines
Hunger has affected the heavens as well.
Graves are full. No more space left.
We need land of the plains. For our graves.
In the ac car the bureaucrat goes. The mother’s with search full eyes
Ask about their sons they lost. They drink their tears
And he sips champagne.


Details | Elegy |

SORRY FATHER

(LAMENTATIONS BEFORE DEATH BY A DEPRESSED SON)

YOUR DREAM FOR ME WAS SO DEEP
THAT IS WHY I WAS BORN FOR KEEP.
YOU WANTED ME TO BE A TRUE SON 
AND WANTED ME TO SHINE LIKE YOUR SUN-

YOU WANTED ME TO FOLLOW YOUR VALUES;
YOU WANTED ME TO BE IN THE RULES,
AND BE A MASQUERADE OF YOUR OWN
SO THAT YOU BE PLEASED; A SON LONE.

YOU WANTED ME TO BE A CHRISTIAN
AND WANTED ME TO ENTER YOUR TRAIN
OF HOPE AND GOOD LIFE.YES GOOD LIFE.
OH FATHER!HOW I HAVE STRIVED!

I BELIEVE YOU GAVE BIRTH TO THE WORST
OF CHILDREN IN THE MENTAL FROST;
CHILD 'MONG THE WORST, AN ACCURSED.
I AM THAT CHILD WHO IS CURSED-

FORGIVE ME FATHER.I AM SORRY.SORRY .
CAN'T FULFILL YOUR DREAMS;I'M NOT HOLY-
I'M INSTEAD A CHEAT;THIEF,DISGRACE.
I AM A BAD AND BAD FACE-

I AM THAT USELESS SON YOU HAD.
I AM THE BAD CREATURE WITH CRUEL HEART.
FORGIVE FATHER.FORGIVE ME, FORGIVE-
I CANNOT STILL BE YOUR SON;HOW I GRIEVE.

YOU HAVE NO HOPE,DON't DREAM-
YOUR CHILD IS BAD AS ALL SEEMS.
FORGIVE ME FATHER,SWEET FATHER.
GOOD BYE (WEEPS), SORRY FATHER....


Details | Elegy |

Across Galaxies

I passed beneath the bridge today
close by the place you once called home,
and I sensed your latent footprints
still lingering upon the stone.

I wonder . . . did you pass that way,
mysteriously, in the night,
as guardian angels carried you
across the galaxies t'ward light?

July 24, 2014


Details | Elegy |

MONOLITH

monolith wrapped
with blackish aura
now old lion has
lost it's strength 
wiggles under the
iron gossamer
sometimes yelps
yawns and sighs 
waiting in labyrinth
for macabre end




For P.D'S contest


Details | Elegy |

To our dearly beloved son, now dead

for Mahathero Gunasena

In a makeshift vihara in the heart of London
Bikku then disclosed his parents long gone
Might one dare utter after all these years
Was it yesterday he would shed dry tears

Somewhere in the saffron folds of his faith
A lonely boy still lurked wanting his mother
Or brother sister and hope-dislocating father
Of how they could abandon even his wraith

Just a single line in the inner board of a book
Over dried blue ink his fingers caressed words
A life he might’ve had in who knows what worlds
He just wanted to say: ‘See, who so forsook!’

In an unwatched vihara in the heart of London
A forsaken boy dared break out of monkdom
Might one dare utter after all these years
Was it yesterday he would shed dry tears

Too late he had come to own up this truth:
‘If there’s a Supreme Being leave Him well be
He knows best what He’s doing forsooth
Mind your own business leave Him well be!’

Should one gauge the measure of a man’s humanity
From his ability to outgrow imposed attachments:
Such as confines of his community race or country
But most of all withstand the viral encroachments
Of his conditioned beliefs upon his own personality.

© T. Wignesan – Paris – September 8, 1983 (Rev. 2012)

From: T. Wignesan
Copyright ©: T. Wignesan - Paris, 1983 - (from the sequence/collection: "Words for a Lost Sub-Continent", 1999.)


Details | Elegy |

John John

Don’t let guilt be the drive that takes you away 
from sanity! 
Eventually everything you feel emotionally will be 
set free.
Honestly I never thought I’d care so much that 
you’re gone 
But, I miss you and I know now that I’m wrong…

Why did god have to take you away? 
Couldn’t he see you’re still needed here? 
Mom needs you and so do your kids. 
Dad pretends not to care but inside the feelings 
exist. 

Why did you leave, you should’ve fought harder to 
stay alive.
We miss you as the days go by.
I see your face every time I close my eyes. 
But it’s not the same without you here today. 
With you gone the days just fade away..


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