Cover

About the Author

Julia Watson was born in Wales, and read English and Drama at Exeter University.

Her many television appearances include several series of Casualty for the BBC playing Dr Baz – she recently paid a final visit to Holby! – and Thames TV’s long-running comedy series Never the Twain with Donald Sinden and Windsor Davies. She has worked extensively in theatre, and has appeared in Danton’s Death, Major Barbara, She Stoops to Conquer and Wild Honey for the National Theatre.

In 2003 she received a Grammy nomination (Best Performance) for The Woman and the Hare with the Nashe Ensemble.

Julia Watson is married to the poet David Harsent. They live with their daughter in Barnes, south-west London.

Foreword

From time to time my husband David Harsent and I are asked for suggestions for readings. As poet and actress respectively, we are thought to know about these things – in reality we have to do the research too. Each occasion has its own specific requirements. Thus the idea for this collection came about.

These poems and readings have been chosen to be read aloud at a service celebrating someone’s life, although the very short pieces are also suggestions for inclusion on a printed order of service.

Funerals, unlike weddings, are rarely planned. Even with the knowledge that death may come soon, no one wants to give up hope of that life and organize the sending-off. My father, knowing he was dying, planned his funeral – the readings, music, everything. It gave us, his family, some comfort in those in credibly difficult days following his death to know that we were giving him the exit he wanted.

Sometimes friends who are not used to reading in public come for advice. It is important to be very familiar with the piece. Practise it aloud in private, checking the rhythm if it is a poem, remembering to acknowledge the line breaks and being clear about what it all means. It is often not possible to have a practice in the place where the service is being held, and only in the larger spaces will microphones be offered. The way to ensure that one is speaking loudly enough is to do the reading to the people at the back. This makes one naturally raise the voice. I have attended several services where the readings have been inaudible. A lot of effort has gone into the selection – it is therefore important that the piece is heard. But at the end of the day it is not about the performance; it is all about the celebration of someone’s life.

Julia Watson

REMEMBER ME WHEN I AM GONE AWAY …

Seasons turn and rivers flow
Mourn me hard and let me go.

‘Last Wish’,
Asa James (1972– )

‘Remember me when I am gone away’

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you planned:

Only remember me, you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Rossetti (1830–94)

Heaven-Haven

I have desired to go

Where springs not fail,

To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail

And a few lilies blow.

And I have asked to be

Where no storms come,

Where the green swell is in the havens dumb,

And out of the swing of the sea.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89)

Life Goes On

If I should go before the rest of you,

Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone

Nor when I’m gone speak in a Sunday voice

But be the usual selves that I have known.

Weep if you must,

Parting is hell,

But life goes on,

So sing as well.

Joyce Grenfell (1910–79)

Living Each Day

Now I am gone, now I am lost to you

Find me again just as you used to do:

In the house – when you go from room to room you’ll find

The bits and pieces that I’ve left behind.

In the street – of course… I’ve stopped to window-shop;

You carry on, my love, I’ll catch you up.

At night – as darkness slowly fills the sky:

I’m late; don’t fret; I’ll be there by and by.

At morning – when the sky is still blue-black,

I had to go out early: I’ll be back.

In sunshine – as you peer into the glare –

A shape that seems to be both light and air.

In rain – as you look out and people pass –

One leaves a reflection printed on the glass.

In the garden – when you doze away the hours

I pass with a smile on my face, and my arms full of flowers.

Lisa Kitson (1961– )

‘Death is nothing at all’

Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we still are. Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way that you always used. Put no difference in your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was, let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was; there is unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner.

All is well.

Henry Scott Holland (1847–1918)

Remember Me

To the living, I am gone

To the sorrowful, I will never return

To the angry, I was cheated

But to the happy, I am at peace

And to the faithful, I have never left

I cannot speak, but I can listen

I cannot be seen, but I can be heard

So as you stand upon the shore

Gazing at the beautiful sea, remember me

As you look in awe at a mighty forest

And its grand majesty, remember me

Remember me in your hearts,

In your thoughts, and the memories of the

Times we loved, the times we cried, the

Battle we fought and the times we laughed

For if you always think of me, I will

Have never gone.

Anon.

‘I’m here for a short visit only’

I’m here for a short visit only

And I’d rather be loved than hated

Eternity may be lonely

When my body’s disintegrated

And that which is loosely termed my soul

Goes whizzing off through the infinite

By means of some vague remote control

I’d like to think I was missed a bit.

Noël Coward (1899–1973)

‘No longer mourn for me when I am dead’

No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled

From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:

Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it, for I love you so

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,

If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O if (I say) you look upon this verse,

When I, perhaps, compounded am with clay,

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,

But let your love even with my life decay;

Lest the wise world should look into your moan,

And mock you with me after I am gone.

William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

If Death is Kind

Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning,

We will come back to earth some fragrant night,

And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending

Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white.

We will come down at night to these resounding beaches

And the long gentle thunder of the sea,

Here for a single hour in the wide starlight

We shall be happy, for the dead are free.

Sara Teasdale (1884–1933)

Fare Well

When I lie where shades of darkness

Shall no more assail mine eyes,

Nor the rain make lamentation

When the wind sighs;

How will fare the world whose wonder

Was the very proof of me?

Memory fades, must the remembered

Perishing be?

Oh, when this my dust surrenders

Hand, foot, lip, to dust again,

May these loved and loving faces

Please other men!

May the rusting harvest hedgerow

Still the Traveller’s Joy entwine,

And as happy children gather

Posies once mine.

Look thy last on all things lovely,

Every hour. Let no night

Seal thy sense in deathly slumber

Till to delight

Thou have paid thy utmost blessing;

Since that all things thou wouldst praise

Beauty took from those who loved them

In other days.

Walter de la Mare (1873–1956)

When I Died

I’m coming back on All Saints’ Day

for your olives, old peanuts and dodgy sherry,

dirty dancing. I’ll cross-dress at last

pirouette and flash, act pissed.

You’ll have to look for me hard:

search for my bones in the crowd.

Or lay a pint and a pie on my grave to tempt me out

and a trail of marigolds back to the flat,

where you’ll leave the door ajar

and the cushions plumped in my old armchair.

Jo Shapcott (1953–)

‘Because I could not stop for Death’

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –

The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess – in the Ring –

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –

We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –

The Dews grew quivering and chill –

For only Gossamer, my Gown –

My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground –

The Roof was scarcely visible –

The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter then the Day

I first surmised the Horses’ heads

Were toward Eternity –

Emily Dickinson (1830–86)

‘I see myself now at the end of my journey’

I see myself now at the end of my journey; my toilsome days are ended. I am going to see that head which was crowned with thorns, and that face which was spit upon for me. I have formerly lived by hearsay and faith, but now I go where I shall live by sight, and shall be with Him in whose company I delight myself. I have loved to hear my Lord spoken of; and wherever I have seen the print of his shoe in the earth, there I have coveted to set my foot too. His name to me has been as a civet-box; yea, sweeter than all perfumes. His voice to me has been most sweet; and his countenance I have more desired than they that have most desired the light of the sun. His words I did use to gather for my food, and for antidotes against my faintings. He has held me, and has kept me from mine iniquities; yea, my steps hath he strengthened in his way.

Now, while he was thus in discourse, his countenance changed; his strong man bowed under him; and after he had said, ‘Take me, for I come unto Thee!’ he ceased to be seen of them.

But glorious it was to see how the upper region was filled with horses and chariots, with trumpeters and pipers, with singers and players on stringed instruments, to welcome the pilgrims as they went up, and followed one another in at the beautiful gate of the city.

from The Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan (1628–88)

Requiem

Under the wide and starry sky

Dig the grave and let me lie:

Glad did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:

Here he lies where he longed to be;

Home is the sailor, home from sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–94)

‘I thought I’d write my own obituary’

I thought I’d write my own obituary. Instead,

I wrote the blurb for when I’m risen from the dead:

Ignite the flares, connect the phones, wind all the clocks;

the sun goes rusty like a medal in its box –

collect it from the loft. Peg out the stars,

replace the bulbs of Jupiter and Mars.

A man like that takes something with him when he dies,

but he has wept the coins that rested on his eyes,

eased out the stopper from the mouthpiece of the cave,

exhumed his own white body from the grave.

Unlock the rivers, hoist the dawn and launch the sea.

Set up the skittles of the orchard and the wood again,

now everything is clear and straight and free and good

again.

Simon Armitage (1963–)

Think of Me Then

On a day of rain when you sit indoors

By the fire with a book, as I loved to do,

And the storm wind roars

Think of me then.

As you walk by the shore when the sun is high

And the sea is blue, as I loved to do,

And the seagulls cry

Think of me then.

When you’re skimming stones in the fading light

Choosing them smooth, as I loved to do,

And they skip out of sight

Think of me then.

When you sit in the garden in summer and keep

Watch with the night, as I loved to do

Go to sleep,

Dream of me then.

Asa James (1972–)

The New Path

Now I know what is meant by death –

A leavetaking

In one way, in another

A kind of waking.

The old world almost gone

your voices ringing

in my ears like a distant echo

barely clinging.

The stones of the earth are warm

and the grass is singing

as I start down my new path

to my new beginning.

Oscar Beynon (1962–)

Footprints in the Sand

One night I dreamed I was walking
Along the beach with the Lord,

Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand.

Sometimes there were two sets of footprints.
Other times there was only one.

This bothered me because I noticed
During the low periods of my life when I was

Suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat,
I could see only one set of footprints.

So I said to the Lord, ‘You promised me,
Lord, that if I followed You,
You would walk with me always.

But I noticed during the most trying periods
Of my life there has only been
One set of prints in the sand.

Why, when I needed You most,
Have You not been there for me?’

The Lord replied,
‘The times when you have seen only one set of footprints
It was then that I carried you.’

Anon.

The Book

Go to that place we loved, our secret place.

Close your eyes and you’ll see my face.

Play that tune, the tune we loved to hear.

Close your eyes and you’ll see me clear.

Walk on a beach or climb to the top of a hill.

Close your eyes and you’ll see me still.

Take a sip of wine, of dark red wine.

Close your eyes and you’ll see me fine.

At night go out and look at the brightest star.

Close your eyes and you’ll see me far.

On a day when the sky is blue and cold and clear,

Close your eyes and you’ll see me near.

Take down a book that would have been my choice.

Open the book. Close your eyes. You’ll hear my voice.

Paul Meadows (1969– )

The Legacy

The song of the wind in the tree

The hang and heave of the sea

The cry of a bird on the wing

This is my legacy.

The sun on a frosting of dew

The rain when it comes on cue

The greening and the shining

I leave all this to you.

Sarah-Jane Brooks (1963–)

‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever’

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits…

from Endymion, John Keats (1795–1821)

When I Have Fears

When I have fears, as Keats had fears,

Of the moment I’ll cease to be

I console myself with vanished years

Remembered laughter, remembered tears,

And the peace of the changing sea.

When I feel sad, as Keats felt sad,

That my life is so nearly done

It gives me comfort to dwell upon

Remembered friends who are dead and gone

And the jokes we had and the fun.

How happy they are I cannot know

But happy am I who loved them so.

Noël Coward (1899–1973)

A Song of Living

Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.

I have sent up my gladness on wings, to be lost in the blue of the sky.

I have run and leaped with the rain, I have taken the wind to my breast.

My cheek like a drowsy child to the face of the earth I have pressed.

Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.

I have kissed young Love on the lips, I have heard his song to the end.

I have struck my hand like a seal in the loyal hand of a friend.

I have known the peace of heaven, the comfort of work done well.

I have longed for death in the darkness and risen alive out of hell.

Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.

I give a share of my soul to the world where my course is run.

I know that another shall finish the task I must leave undone.

I know that no flower, nor flint was in vain on the path I trod.

As one looks on a face through a window, through life I have looked on God.

Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.

Amelia Josephine Burr (1878–?)

‘I should like to be buried in a summer forest’

I should like to be buried in a summer forest

where people go in July,

only a bus ride from the city,

I should like them to walk over me

not noticing anything but sunlight

and patches of wild strawberries –

Here! Look under the leaves!

I should like the child who is slowest

to end up picking the most,

and the big kids will show the little

the only way to grasp a nettle

and pick it so it doesn’t sting.

I should like home-time to come

so late the bus has its lights on

and a cloud of moths hangs in their beam,

and when they are all gone

I should like to be buried in a summer forest

where the dark steps

blindfold, on cat foot-pads,

with the dawn almost touching it.

Helen Dunmore (1952–)

‘I would not have a god come in’

I would not have a god come in

To shield me suddenly from sin,

And set my house of life to rights;

Nor angels with bright burning wings

Ordering my earthly thoughts and things;

Rather my own frail guttering lights

Wind blown and nearly beaten out;

Rather the terror of the nights

And long, sick groping after doubt;

Rather be lost than let my soul

Slip vaguely from my own control –

Of my own spirit let me be

In sole though feeble mastery.

Sara Teasdale (1884–1933)

I’ve Made Out a Will

I’ve made out a will; I’m leaving myself

to the National Health. I’m sure they can use

the jellies and tubes and syrups and glues,

the web of nerves and veins, the loaf of brains,

an assortment of fillings and stitches and wounds,

blood – a gallon exactly of bilberry soup —

the chassis or cage or cathedral of bone;

but not the heart, they can leave that alone.

They can have the lot, the whole stock:

the loops and coils and sprockets and springs and rods,

the twines and cords and strands,

the face, the case, the cogs and the hands,

but not the pendulum, the ticker;

leave that where it stops or hangs.

Simon Armitage (1963– )

Coda

There’s little in taking or giving,

There’s little in water or wine;

This living, this living, this living

Was never a project of mine.

Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is

The gain of the one at the top,

For art is a form of catharsis,

And love is a permanent flop,

And work is the province of cattle,

And rest’s for a clam in a shell,

So I’m thinking of throwing the battle –

Would you kindly direct me to hell?

Dorothy Parker (1893–1967)

Rest

The memories and love I leave behind

Are yours to keep

I have found my rest; I have turned my face

To the sun, and now I sleep.

Alan Curtis (1959–)

Prayer

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean I am actually doing so. But I believe the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have the desire in all that I am doing. I hope I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear for you are ever with me and you will never leave me to face my troubles alone.

Thomas Merton (1915–68)

A TINY LAMP HAS GONE OUT IN MY TENT …

God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed,
Courage to change the things that should be changed,
And the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other.

‘The Serenity Prayer’, Reinhold Niebuhr (1892–1971)

‘You must not shut the night inside you’

You must not shut the night inside you,

But endlessly in light the dark immerse.

A tiny lamp has gone out in my tent —

I bless the flame that warms the universe.

from Kindertotenlieder (Songs of the Death of Children), Friedrich Rückert (1788–1866)

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!