After The Funeral (In Memory Of Ann Jones) Comments

The seas to service that her wood-tongud virtue Babble like a bellbuoy over the hymning heads, Bow down the walls of the ferned and foxy woods That her love sing and swing through a brown chapel, Blees her bent spirit with four, crossing birds. A very fine poem. tony

'Magnified out of praise; her death was a still drop' - what a magnificent expression, loved it! Glad to see this poem get the well deserved honour of the 'Modern Poem of the Day'!

Tears! ! ! ! At the funeral! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.

Bow down the walls of the ferned and foxy woods That her love sing and swing through a brown chapel. Great

Yes, about the poem the poignant comments of R.H. Peat and Denis Prosser were right, I think. It's a poem on Ann Jones and life of that time. Beautiful poem

A dense but very moving poem

Light to decent 4, tran...

I’m sure Ann Jones would smile for this tribute.

Awesome I like this poem, check mine oit

The rhyme in this poem is fantastic. The onomatopoeia, alliteration, assonance, and consonance sing all the way throughout this poem. Even the ends of some the lines rhyme or slant rhyme in places; they emphasize the contextual intent of the poem in ways as well. Lines like “a bell-bouy over the hymning heads” followed by “ferned and foxy woods” as well as “was a still drop” and “lie dumb and deep” separating rhyming end-lines ending with blindly, holy and body and later in the turning of the poem “year & threadbare” and in the closing end lines of “monumental, until, and sill” this poem sings internally with rhyming sounds and some the rhyming sounds end on the end-line, but much of it is internal and quite wonderful to hear aloud as you stumble and tumble through its bunched and bursting feelings coming at you. I marvel at its strength of music while stating a profound mourning for someone well loved. This poem is an example of a masterful use of internal and random end-line rhyme. A poet friend// RH Peat

A lot of his earlier poems were obscure. This one was an exception to the rule. Ann Jones was his aunt whose farm he often went to on holidays. A fine poem. His description of a typical front parlour of a Welsh house of those times is spot on.