The Clocks

Apparently “Funeral Blues” (Stop all the Clocks) by W.H. Auden was originally written as satire. Then came “Four Weddings and a Funeral” and the poem’s popularity soared.

I certainly don’t think of myself as a poet, but I enjoy writing the odd parody-like answers to poems I admire. Of course, in reading these, you’ll see they are not parodies. I don’t know what they are.

This one I wrote at least a year ago and, as usual, no offence is meant.

I should add: not everything I write is this dark.

The clocks will not stop

 

Apologies, W. H. Auden
Only death can silence me – for you to be free

 

Don’t worry the clocks will not stop, the telephone lines depend
on Telkom wires,
No use in worrying about that
Dogs will bark, let them be,
The piano, your piano, but that was long ago …
The muffled drum will fall to silence
Bring out the coffin, but first there’ll be a bodybag

Fear not the black skies overhead
Imbibe the cycle of darkness

Let me be Dead

Let me wear my orange necklace
Let the morning traffic find me
Swinging
dead

I knew no North, no South, no East nor West,
Let the misery be over, let me rest,
In all our hours, in my talk, your song;
I thought that love could save me: I was wrong.

No longer can I bear the work of my decreasing sands
My grotesque reflection, my orange rope – your caring hands;
Pour away your concern, sweep up your notes, delete the file
For nothing good can come now – all has turned vile.

 

 

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