Here’s a new poem by Wendy Cope published in the current Spectator. I hope she’ll forgive the flagrant breach of copyright and see this instead as a promo. Its sentiments are very contemporary.
My Funeral
I hope I can trust you, friends, not to use our relationship
As an excuse for an unsolicited ego-trip.
I have seen enough of them at funerals and they make me cross.
At this one, though deceased, I aim to be the boss.
If you are asked to talk about me for five minutes, please do not go on for eight
There is a strict timetable at the crematorium and nobody wants to be late
If invited to read a poem, just read the bloody poem. If requested
To sing a song, just sing it, as suggested,
And don’t say anything. Though I will not be there,
Glancing pointedly at my watch and fixing the speaker with a malevolent stare,
Remember that this was how I always reacted
When I felt that anybody’s speech, sermon or poetry reading was becoming too protracted.
Yes, I was intolerant, and not always polite
And if there aren’t many people at my funeral, it will serve me right.
I think that Wendy Cope has just written my epitaph!
Brilliant – thanks, Charles.
Minibrants, who could not smile knowingly at “”just read the bloody poem,” and the bit about unsolicited ego-trips?
But it’s clever, isn’t it, because she doesn’t want any ego-trips from the living, yet she aims to be the boss.. and the ending is just perfect, leaving open-ended questions and further thoughts about the whole business.
Thanks Charles – an ur-text for celbsters!
Gosh, yes, it’s clever. I’ve been musing on this zeitgeisty demand for post-mortem control (and where it ends). When can we call time of death? Dead people want to call the shots, and there’s a case for rebuffing them with, Butt out, you’re dead. But the living, many of whom feel guiltily that they ought to have been more use to the person when they were alive, feel there is an atonement and reparation opportunity in going to say goodbye to a ten-day-old corpse in the present tense.
Contemporary above all in its cynicism … which I view as a pity, though it reflects reality. I always feel it is a pity when art aspires to no more than reflecting reality, rather than taking one above it. Especially when the reality sucks! This is fine as a poem, but imagine something like this actually serving as the final statement for one’s life? I would certainly hope to leave on a more positive, or at least, detached note. It reminds me a little of Charles’ post with the guy using his last opportunity to protest at some American president.… Read more »
H’m. The problem with irony is that it’s so easy to mis-read it. Does anyone really think the poet is celebrating the time constraints at the local crem? And it seems to me the last line is doing a lot more than reflecting reality. So I don’t feel cynicism is quite right…it seems to me questioning, probing sort of poem. Charles may have struck the nail in exactly the right place in his final thought; maybe saying goodbye on the dead person’s own terms is an act of atonement, even for those who think “well, he’s out of it, now… Read more »
I may be just like your old worn-out socks,
but you could do better than just stick me in a box
and shove me in a cremator
sooner rather than later.
Come on, I meant something to you,
so I think the least you could do
is go on and on and on about my qualities
and play Bright Side to highlight our jollities.
Pontificate all you want at my funeral –
you’ll be glad you did sooner orl
ater when your time arrives,
hopefully attended by at least three of your ex-wives.
Just finished watching a funeral on TV at which this Wendy Cope poen was actually read. This is what brought me here. But this one seems even more brilliant…
Ha! Brilliant, Jonathan!
[…] My sister spoke more about fond memories. Don’t get me wrong, of course there was still plenty of grief, but there were a couple of, well chuckles if not laughs, as well. Like I say, I’ve never been a poetry buff, but Mam really enjoyed it, and my sister read something by one of Mam’s favourite poets, My Funeral by Wendy Cope. […]