The poem is fine- always was. The dismal tone to which I refer is more
derived from the nature of the subject rather than the poem. My son and I
were discussing funerals and he said if he was available he would speak my
eulogy and what would he want me to say. It was not as miserable
conversation as it sounds, Sue, just a quiet debate. I said I would want to
be remembered as having offended as few a number of people as it is possible
to do so in a lifetime. That does not limit 'sins' as such necessarily , but
it does mean that I was always careful of others feelings in things I did. I
hope that is true.
Just to be continuingly miserable I have purchased a burial plot in a new
idea where they plant trees over your grave, I will be buried in a woven
willow coffin. They are developing new woodlands through the burial sites.
They call them green funerals and in fact are considerably cheaper than the
conventional. it was from this that the discussion with my son devolved. The
woodlands will be up in the Yorkshire Dales. Hand and heart Arthur.-----
Original Message -----
From: "Sue Scalf" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Saturday, June 21, 2003 2:28 PM
Subject: Re: Spirits rewritten
> Bob, Flannery O'Connor said the South had a Christ-haunted landscape. I
may
> not be saying this successfully, but that is somewhat the idea. This is
my
> final version (I promise!)
>
> Old Sins
>
>
> Wearing tattered shrouds,
> they slide into the graveyard of my dreams.
> Grass moves where they move,
> and Spanish moss sways.
> You can't outlive us, they say.
> We never die. And from the dark loam
> of memory they rise with false faces
> and painted smiles. Once I knew them well,
> for they were friends.
>
> Now, old sins whistle through empty rooms,
> smell of decay. Where little is left--a chair,
> a candle stub-- they remain, elemental as pain,
> gently make the rockers squeak upon the porch
> or move the swing with its rusty chains.
> With winter's first rain, they are still there,
> settled in ice and cold that chills the veins.
> When spring sends mist of green upon the hills
> and doves spread white tails, they sit still,
> but whisper in shadowed voices like water falls.
>
> Only a child's laughter will break their spell
> or happiness that leaps into song . . . spirituals
> like "Sweet, sweet Jesus" and "I'm Coming Home."
>
> Sue Scalf
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