Tag Archives

memento mori

POETRY

RELIQUIES

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read1.5K views

The paddock gate is open, the paddock overgrown,

their horses, which have outlived them both,

stabled elsewhere. In the adjacent field

part of a barn’s compacted mud wall collapsed

in heavy rains long before their house was built.

August sun brightens the tumbled yellow earth.

Oak roof beams lean like broken columns.

 

Since I was last here, two years ago or more,

leylandii, planted as a hedge

along the paddock, have trebled in size

in this valley near the Pyrenees.

Their neighbours’ properties and the valley road

are hidden now by the hybrid cypresses.

On the opposite ridge, a buzzard calls

from somewhere in the ancient, pristine woods.

 

Wasps are building a nest under the eaves,

honeysuckle entwines the hibiscus,

and wild grasses sprout on the terrace.

But bees are busy with roses, and inside

all is as it was: their parents’ photos –

on the bookcase where they always were;

the glass cabinet of English crockery,

a wedding present; their riding tack

hanging by the back door.

Pages:

Share

David Selzer By David Selzer
1 Comment
POETRY

MEMENTO VIVERE

David Selzer By David Selzer2 Comments1 min read1.5K views

i.m. Ian Jones

 

There is no right age to die – or way to mourn.

As I thought of him, the small bush I could see

from the desk I wrote at – a plant whose name

we had forgotten, lost – was burgeoning:

its leaves greening, swelling, as spring, despite

that day’s north westerly, took hold. In time –

which he no longer had or had in

profligate abundance – an array

of delicate pink and white flowers would bloom.

 

I thought of his talents, his unassuming

skills – mammon’s measurements – and what makes us

human:  his smile, chuckle, patience, gentle

irony, and his kindness. That chance

perennial would be a remembrance.

 

It flowered with an abundance of petals

in early summer. Within weeks the flowers

began to die, singly, and then in bunches.

The leaves withered and fell. He would have grinned

hugely at such bathos.

 

 

 

Pages:

Share

David Selzer By David Selzer
2 Comments
POETRY

ST JAMES CEMETERY, TOXTETH

David Selzer By David Selzer2 Comments2 min read1.7K views

The graveyard had been a sand stone quarry

before Victorian memento mori

filled it. Here were held the obsequies

of gentry and skivvies, cotton kings

and seamen. In the ‘60s, it was unkempt,

the unfinished Anglican Cathedral,

in machine cut sand stone, pristine above it.

 

The bell ringing practice would start at 9.00

every Saturday morning – the heaviest

eight bell peal in the world.  It’s oh so English

chiming cacophony filled the houses

of Liverpool 8’s grand Victorian streets.

So there was never a chance of an

undisturbed lie-in and, anyway, that day,

in an emollient and yet enticing

late May, I was revising for an exam

on teleology or ontology,

epistemology, eschatology

or whatever. Fifty years on I forget –

but I do remember that the intense

silence, which usually accompanied

the end of the practice at noon, never

occurred. Instead, there was a murmur –

like pages turned or dried leaves rustled.

Curious, I went out. The cemetery

and the pavements above were filled with

excited children. There were scores of them.

‘Where are you from?’ I asked. ‘Why are you here?’

‘West Derby, Everton Heights, The Dingle –

for the monsters, the fairies, the spirits.’

They were excited but gentle, answering

my questions willingly – exploring

the cemetery with enthusiasm

and care. By twilight, they had all gone.

There was no mention in the local press

and none of the neighbours seemed aware.

 

Now the cemetery has been largely

landscaped – in effect, evacuated.

A natural spring in the east wall still

pours forth, rising in Edge Hill, emptying

into the river, running beneath

and cleansing the temples of mammon.

 

 

 

 

Pages:

Share

David Selzer By David Selzer
2 Comments

Recent Posts