A.k.a. “Stop All The Clocks”
The brothers’ related banter…
John: Hank, would you like me to read you a poem about death?
Hank: That sounds like the kind of thing that you do.
John: This poem is by WH Auden. I’ve been thinking a lot about memoriam poems, like, poems that have been written in memorial to other people, because there’s been so much death. It’s January, still. Actually, it’s not, it’s February. I guess now it’s the least deadly month. January is the deadliest month for humans. February, the least deadly month, but only because it has so few days. Anyway, this is a great poem by WH Auden, and I apologize in advance for it not being shorter. But it’s still fairly short.
(Reads poem)
WH Auden, the poem often known as “Stop All the Clocks, Cut off the Telephone.”
Hank: Thanks for bringing us up, here, John! Glad to start the podcast off on the upbeat note!
John: Yeah, I was wrong about the title. It’s actually called “Funeral Blues.” I really like that poem, though. It is a little dark. As I was reading it I realized that it’s a little bit sad [laughs].
Hank: [laughs] I did. I felt the sadness. It was in me. It’s still there! Indeed.
John: You know what I like about that poem, though, Hank. Just real briefly, what I love about it is that when people die – when people you love die, one of the things that I’m always struck by is that the world goes on?
Hank: Hmm.
John: Uh, so, I remember when we were burying our grandfather – our father’s father – I remember looking down at the street and just seeing all of the cars moving and thinking “Well, that’s very strange, that the world is going on as if nothing has happened.” And that WH Auden poem is for me, that clarion call of “This is what death should be”. But of course, it can never be because it’s something that people do everyday. Uh, anyway, sorry to start on a dark note. Let’s move on to questions from our listeners. …
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Click to read poem
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 crepe 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 any good.
John Green Reads Poetry 