Songs my mother taught me at the breast

sweet hauntings while to the nipple pressed

too late for memory's supplication now

though promises made of life a silent vow.


The song of dust and bones is grinding slow,

what the finger writes

we surely cannot know.

Then her sweet lips were pressed

into a grave;

a shovel rang, the music of the spheres

enchanted echoed back

then disappeared. 




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Mon 8th Oct 2018 22:24

Glad you got it Hannah, you always seem to relate to my spirit of writing. Very nice too.

Ray x

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Hannah Collins

Mon 8th Oct 2018 14:50

Beautiful, sad.
The songs of life, then death.


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Fri 5th Oct 2018 20:34

Thanks Martin I appreciate your thought.

Thanks David, see above!

I'm very pleased you like this Big Sal. We have a different way of expressing ourselves, so respect there.

Taylor, that is a compliment. I do that if I'm drawn in to a poem.

Avishek Jon and Rachel, thanks for the flowers!


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Fri 5th Oct 2018 20:31

Hi David. It's fortunate when you know a person on a deeper level than is possible just online, and can explore the light and shades of meaning in poetry, which as you say we got to grips with. My use of the word "nipple" was the sticking point and some may consider rightly that it has a overtly sexual connotation out of line with the poem. My point was that with an intimate bonding there became a greater descent at the end. We agreed that!
Babies come about through sex, and get gratification and bonding from the mother. How can it be otherwise?
I'll leave it there, thanks everyone!


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Taylor Crowshaw

Thu 4th Oct 2018 07:32

Beautiful poem Ray, read it twice and thrice..?

Big Sal

Thu 4th Oct 2018 02:36

Beautiful with bathos injected into it for good measure. Excellent poem very much worthy of its namesake.


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Martin Elder

Wed 3rd Oct 2018 22:37

Ray this definitely reads like it should be a folk song and a very fine one at that

Nice one

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