Stop All the clocks
Posted by justagirl17x
20th Sep 2017

Inspired by "Funeral Blues by W.H Auden".......

Written as a tribute to his dead lover this is the Poem that for me epitomises grief. I was in tears the first time that I heard it.....I cried a tsunami the day that it became relevant to me.

I didn't "do" grief. I didn't get it. People and posessions came and went from my life and I always emerged relatively unscathed. It was a cat that stopped my clock from ticking. June 2nd 2013. I watched as he died and I went with him. 

There were no words for me that day.....or for a very long time after. His demise was mine too. Up until that day i'd had a little bit of something to cling to. I got up, I got dressed. I went through the motions of passing my time because he was there too. He was my life line through my hellish depression and being without him was unimaginable.

I was inconsolable. Nothing mattered any more. Nothing but him had mattered to me for a long time and now he was gone I literally shattered.

He was the only small massive thing I have ever known and I missed him so much I was physically in pain. My head and my heart hurt 24 hours a day. I couldnt handle the sheer weight of emotion pressing down on was way too much for one person to handle. I closed the curtains, went to bed and stayed there.....for weeks, grieving for my little man.

I only got out of bed because I was needed on a red carpet somewhere. I had to pose and preen and look pretty for a magazine. And I did. I pulled it off. I looked pretty. I knew that he would want me to and so I did. I did it for him when I didnt give a shit about me. 

Four years on there is still a hole inside me that only he can fill. I miss him every day. 

These beautiful, haunting, heartbroken words are for him and describe exactly what he meant to me xx

Funeral Blues by Wystan Hugh Auden

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 He is Dead,
Put crépe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,
I thought that love would last forever: I was 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 some good

Share Email a friend Be the first to comment on this blog