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Butt in chair
1. The death of a friend


Bridget Zinn, a dear friend of mine and one of the best people to have ever walked the earth, died today. In honor of her, I post the following poem by W. H. Auden, with apologies to the author's memory for changing the "he" to "she" and the "I" to "our." Whenever I eat chocolate or cupcakes, go on a dreamy flaneur-walk, or see a pair of awesome red boots, Bridget I will think of you. Meanwhile, we grieve.


Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotten gloves.

She was our North, our South, our East and West,
Our working week and our Sunday rest,
Our noon, our midnight, our talk, our song;
We thought that love would last forever: We were wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

 


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