Funeral readings or poems

[AnonyMum21]

My grandmother aged 97 just died…
She wasn’t religious or particularly sentimental, she was very pragmatic and stoic - a real tough war-generation lady.

I’m not sure that she believed in life after death, or meeting her husband in the afterlife

Can anyone suggest any suitable, and non- slushy poems or reflective reading please?
Thank you

[Allsorts1]

Although this does reference meeting after death, I find it quite lovely and see it more as a poem about remembering someone fondly rather than anything spiritual per se -

Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened.

Everything remains exactly as it was.
I am I, and you are you,
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that 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 an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just round the corner.

All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

• Henry Scott-Holland

[Allsorts1]

And I’m sorry for your loss x

[AnonyMum21]

@Allsorts1. This is fab, thank you… exactly the kind of thing I was hoping for, and could be perfect for my Nan, x

[badlydrawnbear]

www.funeralguide.co.uk/help-resources/arranging-a-funeral/planning-the-service/funeral-poems/she-is-gone-he-is-gone

I had this at my atheist DH’s funeral (obviously with the pronouns changed). It really worked.

[hivemindneeded]

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

Source: www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/do-not-stand-by-my-grave-and-weep-by-mary-elizabeth-frye

[Palavah]

Late Fragment
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

“Late Fragment” by Raymond Carver From A New Path to the Waterfall, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1989

[Watercoloursky]

Funnily enough, I read the All is Well poem mentioned above at my nana's funeral yesterday! I think it's just such a good sentiment- not mawkish but the idea of remembering someone fondly and their name not being taboo is really lovely.

[CrimbleCrumble1]

The Dash Poem.

[CrimbleCrumble1]

Dash poem

[Allsorts1]

@hivemindneeded this is so beautiful. And exactly my own sentiments!

[LadyPenelope68]

@hivemindneeded
We had that exact poem at my Mum’s funeral a few weeks ago. It’s perfect.

[hivemindneeded]

@LadyPenelope68 - I am so sorry about your mum.
@Allsorts1 - it's just perfect isn't it?

[AnonyMum21]

Thank you everyone, some great ideas here…

(And especially love the ‘dash’ one for me - about living life now)

[Lentil63]

I am very sorry for your loss. I read this for my dad.

They Are Not Dead

They are not dead,
Who leave us this great heritage
Of remembered joy.
They still live in our hearts,
In the happiness we knew,
In the dreams we shared.
They still breathe,
In the lingering fragrance windblown,
From their favourite flowers.
They still smile in the moonlight's silver
And laugh in the sunlight's sparkling gold.

They still speak in the echoes of words
We've heard them say again and again.
They still move,
In the rhythm of waving grasses,
In the dance of the tossing branches.
They are not dead;
Their memory is warm in our hearts,
Comfort in our sorrow.
They are not apart from us,
But a part of us
For love is eternal,
And those we love shall be with us
Throughout all eternity.
Anon

[Morethanthis71]

She Is Gone (He Is Gone)

You can shed tears that she is gone
Or you can smile because she has lived

You can close your eyes and pray that she will come back
Or you can open your eyes and see all that she has left

Your heart can be empty because you can’t see her
Or you can be full of the love that you shared

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday
Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday

[Roselilly36]

@Allsorts1

Although this does reference meeting after death, I find it quite lovely and see it more as a poem about remembering someone fondly rather than anything spiritual per se -

Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened.

Everything remains exactly as it was.
I am I, and you are you,
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that 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 an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just round the corner.

All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

• Henry Scott-Holland

I love this too, had this read at a few family funerals, I find the words very comforting. So sorry for your loss OP,, I have lost all my family of this generation, they were what DH and I describe as proper people, much loved.

[balzamico]

I got this fro Mumsnet a few weeks ago, we printed it on dads order of service
Remember Me
Speak of me as you have always done.

Remember the good times, laughter, and fun.

Share the happy memories we’ve made.

Do not let them wither or fade.

I’ll be with you in the summer’s sun

And when the winter’s chill has come.

I’ll be the voice that whispers in the breeze.

I’m peaceful now, put your mind at ease.

I’ve rested my eyes and gone to sleep,

But memories we’ve shared are yours to keep.

Sometimes our final days may be a test,

But remember me when I was at my best.

Although things may not be the same,

Don’t be afraid to use my name.

Let your sorrow last for just a while.

Comfort each other and try to smile.

I’ve lived a life filled with joy and fun.

Live on now, make me proud of what you’ll become.

Anthony Dowson

[AnonyMum21]

Huge thanks to you all for suggestions,
Very helpful, x

[toastofthetown]

Dirge Without Music by Edna St Vincent Millay is my favourite bereavement poem. Not saccharine, and no mentions of afterlife.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

[toastofthetown]

Also, so sorry for your loss

[hivemindneeded]

@toastofthetown

Dirge Without Music by Edna St Vincent Millay is my favourite bereavement poem. Not saccharine, and no mentions of afterlife.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

@toastofthetown - Thank you so much for posting that.

What an incredible, brilliant poem. It's taken my breath away. It's so perfectly expressed, and as you say, not saccharine at all.

[sleepyhoglet]

Ecclesiastes 3
New International Version*
*
A Time for Everything
3 
There is a time(A) for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:
2 
    a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,(B)
3 
    a time to kill(C) and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 
    a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 
    a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
6 
    a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 
    a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent(D) and a time to speak,
8 
    a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.

[Sunnyday321]

I like this one for the elderly . For me , it says they have lots of passed loved ones waiting for them

[ParisSight]

To celebrate the life of someone who showed her love through every deed and action, we have chosen this:

With These Hands by Pam Ayres

With these hands so soft and clean,
On which I stroke the Vaseline,
I soothe the fever, cool the heat,
Lift verrucas out of feet,
Slap the plasters on the knees,
Dig the garden, prune the trees,
And if it doesn’t work at all,
I throw the mower at the wall.
With these hands I crack the eggs,
Floss my teeth, shave my legs,
Write the cheques, count the fivers,
Make rude signs at piggish drivers,
Clean the goldfish, light the fires,
Pump up half a dozen tyres,
Feed the hamster, worm the dog
And decorate the Yuletide log.
With these hands I block the lens
When taking photos of my friends,
This is Mary, this is Fred,
See their eyeballs all gone red.
With them I gesticulate,
I wag a finger, say, ‘You’re late!’
Throw them up, say, “Don’t ask me!”
And, ‘What’s that in your hand? Let’s see!’

With these hands, I fondly make,
A brontosaurus birthday cake,
I’m sorry for the shape it’s in,
But half of it stuck in the tin.
I pop the corn, I pick the mix,
I whack the cricket ball for six,
I organise the party game,
And clean up things too vile to name.
No pair of jeans do I refuse,
No Levis, Wranglers or FUs,
I wash them fast, I mend them quick,
I sew through denim hard and thick,
For no repair job makes me frown,
I take them up, I let them down,
I do the fly, I do the rip,
I do the knee, I do the zip.
And with these hands I dab the eyes,
Officiate at fond goodbyes,
As in the earth we gravely dig
The late lamented guinea pig.
I bow my head, cross my chest,
And lay his furry soul to rest,
Reflecting that, on many a day,
I could have helped him on his way.
I greet the folks who bang the door,
Fill the mouths that shout for more,
Scrape the trainers free of muck,
Gut the fish and stuff the duck,
I cart the shopping, heave the coal,
Stick the plunger down the bowl,
Take foreign bodies from the eye
And with these hands I wave
Goodbye.

[regularbutpanickingabit]

@ParisSight

To celebrate the life of someone who showed her love through every deed and action, we have chosen this:

With These Hands by Pam Ayres

With these hands so soft and clean,
On which I stroke the Vaseline,
I soothe the fever, cool the heat,
Lift verrucas out of feet,
Slap the plasters on the knees,
Dig the garden, prune the trees,
And if it doesn’t work at all,
I throw the mower at the wall.
With these hands I crack the eggs,
Floss my teeth, shave my legs,
Write the cheques, count the fivers,
Make rude signs at piggish drivers,
Clean the goldfish, light the fires,
Pump up half a dozen tyres,
Feed the hamster, worm the dog
And decorate the Yuletide log.
With these hands I block the lens
When taking photos of my friends,
This is Mary, this is Fred,
See their eyeballs all gone red.
With them I gesticulate,
I wag a finger, say, ‘You’re late!’
Throw them up, say, “Don’t ask me!”
And, ‘What’s that in your hand? Let’s see!’

With these hands, I fondly make,
A brontosaurus birthday cake,
I’m sorry for the shape it’s in,
But half of it stuck in the tin.
I pop the corn, I pick the mix,
I whack the cricket ball for six,
I organise the party game,
And clean up things too vile to name.
No pair of jeans do I refuse,
No Levis, Wranglers or FUs,
I wash them fast, I mend them quick,
I sew through denim hard and thick,
For no repair job makes me frown,
I take them up, I let them down,
I do the fly, I do the rip,
I do the knee, I do the zip.
And with these hands I dab the eyes,
Officiate at fond goodbyes,
As in the earth we gravely dig
The late lamented guinea pig.
I bow my head, cross my chest,
And lay his furry soul to rest,
Reflecting that, on many a day,
I could have helped him on his way.
I greet the folks who bang the door,
Fill the mouths that shout for more,
Scrape the trainers free of muck,
Gut the fish and stuff the duck,
I cart the shopping, heave the coal,
Stick the plunger down the bowl,
Take foreign bodies from the eye
And with these hands I wave
Goodbye.

Oh my goodness, this is brilliant and made me cry. This is describing my Mum in every way. I hope she is with us for many more years but I am going to save this for the day I get that dreaded call because this is her and I want everyone to remember that this is her.

Thank you.