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PAIR A POEM WITH A FILM

Kenji

over 1 year ago

It need not be an obvious match, just how you feel, an interesting juxtaposition, maybe even an antithesis.

to start off…

POEM:

DAN PAGIS: EIN LEBEN
In the month of her death, she is standing by the windowframe,
a young woman with a stylish, permanent wave.
She seems to be in a contemplative mood
as she stands there looking out the window.

Through the glass an afternoon cloud of 1934
looks in at her, blurred, slightly out of focus,
but her faithful servant. On the outside
I’m the one looking at her, four years old almost,

holding back my ball, quietly
going out of the photo and growing old,
growing old carefully, quietly,
so as not to frighten her.
(translation from Hebrew)

FILM: NIGHT AND FOG (RESNAIS)

Kenji

over 1 year ago

POEM

SHARON OLDS: THE CONNOISSEUSE OF SLUGS
When I was a connoisseuse of slugs
I would part the ivy leaves, and look for the
naked jelly of those gold bodies,
translucent strangers glistening along the
stones, slowly, their gelatinous bodies
at my mercy. Made mostly of water, they would shrivel
to nothing if they were sprinkled with salt,
but I was not interested in that. What I liked
was to draw aside the ivy, breathe the
odor of the wall, and stand there in silence
until the slug forgot I was there
and sent its antennae up out of its
head, the glimmering umber horns
rising like telescopes, until finally the
sensitive knobs would pop out the
ends, delicate and intimate. Years later,
when I first saw a naked man,
I gasped with pleasure to see that quiet
mystery reenacted, the slow
elegant being coming out of hiding and
gleaming in the dark air, eager and so
trusting you could weep.

FILM: BLISSFULLY YOURS (APICHATPONG WEERASETHAKUL)

Kenji

over 1 year ago

POEM

DON MARQUIS: (from) ARCHY AND MEHITABEL
i met a toad
the other day by the name
of warty bliggens
he was sitting under
a toadstool
feeling contented
he explained that when the cosmos
was created
that toadstool was especially
planned for his personal
shelter from sun and rain
thought out and prepared
for him
do not tell me
said warty bliggens
that there is not a purpose
in the universe
the thought is blasphemy
a little more
conversation revealed
that warty bliggens
considers himself to be
the center of the same
universe
the earth exists
to grow toadstools for him
to sit under
the sun to give him light
by day and the moon
and wheeling constellations
to make beautiful
the night for the sake of
warty bliggens

to what act of yours
do you impute
this interest on the part
of the creator
of the universe
i asked him
why is it that you
are so greatly favored

ask rather
said warty bliggens
what the universe
has done to deserve me
if i were a
human being i would
not laugh
too complacently
at poor warty bliggens
for similar
absurdities
have only too often
lodged in the crinkles
of the human cerebrum

FILM: DR STRANGELOVE

meg 

over 1 year ago

Clever, Kenji …love the Slugs/Blissfully Yours one

POEM

MARY CALLED HIM MISTER: HENRY LAWSON

They’d parted but a year before—she never thought he’d come,
She stammer’d, blushed, held out her hand, and called him ‘Mister Gum.’
How could he know that all the while she longed to murmur ‘John.’
He called her ‘Miss le Brook,’ and asked how she was getting on.

They’d parted but a year before; they’d loved each other well,
But he’d been to the city, and he came back such a swell.
They longed to meet in fond embrace, they hungered for a kiss—
But Mary called him ‘Mister,’ and the idiot called her ‘Miss.’

He stood and lean’d against the door—a stupid chap was he—
And, when she asked if he’d come in and have a cup of tea,
He looked to left, he looked to right, and then he glanced behind,
And slowly doffed his cabbage-tree, and said he ‘didn’t mind.’

She made a shy apology because the meat was tough,
And then she asked if he was sure his tea was sweet enough;
He stirred the tea and sipped it twice, and answer’d ‘plenty, quite;’
And cut the smallest piece of beef and said that it was ‘right.’

She glanced at him at times and cough’d an awkward little cough;
He stared at anything but her and said, ‘I must be off.’
That evening he went riding north—a sad and lonely ride—
She locked herself inside her room, and there sat down and cried.

They’d parted but a year before, they loved each other well—
But she was such a country girl and he was such a swell ;
They longed to meet in fond embrace, they hungered for a kiss—
But Mary called him ‘Mister’ and the idiot called her ‘Miss".

FILM: REMAINS OF THE DAY

apursan​sar

over 1 year ago

POEM: Ballad of the Moon – Federico García Lorca

The moon came into the forge
in her bustle of flowering nard.
The little boy stares at her, stares.
The boy is staring hard.
In the shaken air
the moon moves her arms,
and shows lubricious and pure,
her breasts of hard tin.
“Moon, moon, moon, run!
If the gypsies come,
they will use your heart
to make white necklaces and rings.”
“Let me dance, my little one.
When the gypsies come,
they’ll find you on the anvil
with your lively eyes closed tight.
“Moon, moon, moon, run!
I can feel their horses come.”
“Let me be, my little one,
don’t step on me, all starched and white!”

Closer comes the the horseman,
drumming on the plain.
The boy is in the forge;
his eyes are closed.
Through the olive grove
come the gypsies, dream and bronze,
their heads held high,
their hooded eyes.

Oh, how the night owl calls,
calling, calling from its tree!
The moon is climbing through the sky
with the child by the hand.

They are crying in the forge,
all the gypsies, shouting, crying.
The air is viewing all, views all.
The air is at the viewing.

FILM: Un chien andalou

Kenji

over 1 year ago

Ha, i was not far into your poem Meg and i thought Remains of the Day!

And Apursansar, i know you like the moon and Un Chien Andalou, so that came to mind too; i’’d been wondering which film to pick for Lorca’s Ballad of the Civil Guard- “Gypsy city, once seen, unforgettable…”

apursan​sar

over 1 year ago

A Kusturica film would perhaps be a good match for that one.

Kenji

over 1 year ago

POEM

BLAKE: THE GARDEN OF LOVE

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys & desires.

FILM: THE MAGDALENE SISTERS

(and Diary of a Country Priest)

Bijoux Alexand​erplatz

over 1 year ago

POEM
ELIOT: THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse

A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

FILM: ED WOOD

(just a brief explanation: This poem reminds me of Bela Lugosi’s portrayal in the film. A man, near the end of life’s journey, who seemed to question past decisions, always wondering what if, but still continuing on the same journey)

Kenji

over 1 year ago

Ha! I was wondering which film could possibly go with that poem. I’m finding it’s hard to come up with satisfying pairings. Maybe more lateral thinking required.

Bijoux Alexand​erplatz

over 1 year ago

That’s where I went with that one, Kenji. Maybe it’s because I just watched Ed Wood again. The stream of consciousness elements remind me of Wood’s filmmaking style, where everything fits in a way, but doesn’t fit in a way. It’s all over the place, yet completely tied together.

Kenji

over 1 year ago

A while back that poem had me thinking of the dumbing down of culture- so now, “in the room the women come and go, talking of Leo di Caprio.”

DADA WEATHER​MAN

over 1 year ago

Killing it with these threads of late, Kenji. I’ll be back later with a selection or two.

ruby stevens

over 1 year ago

maybe it’s kind of obvious but…

Trench Duty, Siegfried Sassoon

Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake,
Out in the trench with three hours’ watch to take,
I blunder through the splashing mirk; and then
Hear the gruff muttering voices of the men
Crouching in cabins candle-chinked with light.
Hark! There’s the big bombardment on our right
Rumbling and bumping; and the dark’s a glare
Of flickering horror in the sectors where
We raid the Bosche; men waiting, stiff and chilled,
Or crawling on their bellies through the wire.
“What? Stretcher-bearers wanted? Some one killed?”
Five minutes ago I heard a sniper fire:
Why did he do it? … Starlight overhead -
Blank stars. I’m wide-awake; and some chap’s dead.

the big parade d. king vidor (1925)

also: that lorca poem is so beautiful

Kenji

over 1 year ago

Another WW1 match::

WILFRED OWEN: STRANGE MEETING
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,-
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision’s face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.”
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also, I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now . . .”

FILM: ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT

Kenji

over 1 year ago

Eric Rohmer’s films of summer, nature and young love remind me of the great Welsh medieval poet Dafydd ap Gwilym. I’m trying to find the right match. In the meantime, here’s another pairing for Dafydd, master of Cywydd and Cynghanedd poetic arts.

DAFYDD AP GWILYM: PRAISE OF THE SONG THRUSH

I heard yesterday beneath the birches

the voice of the cock-thrush,

his amorous song finely-phrased to a clear tune,

lovely bright language, a merry auspicious gift.

What sweeter trill could there ever be

than his little whistling?

At matins he reads three lessons,

his cassock is of feathers in our midst.

His call and his clear cry from a grove

are to be heard far over the lands,

hillside prophet, longing’s powerful author,

brilliantly-skilled chief bard of the wooded vale.

He sings every fine voice

out of dear zeal on stream’s edge,

every good recitation in skilled metre,

every tune on the organ, every song,

every lovely melody for a girl’s sake,

a poetic contest for the best love.

Preacher and conductor of literature,

sweet and clear, pure is his muse,

poet of Ovid’s faultless song,

May’s chief dignity and primate.

Author of the woodland birds’ song,

from his birchgrove where lovers meet

he knows the odes and metres of love,

a joyous singing voice from a fair glade,

merry bird which sings on hazel trees

in a fair wood, wings of an angel.

Scarcely would the birds of Paradise

(the connoiseur loves him)

be able through skill and feat of correct memory

to recite all the song that he sang.

(translation from Welsh)

FILM: A DAY IN THE COUNTRY

A Day in the Country is lovely and summery, but also very poignant, so:

DAFYDD AP GWILYM: TO MORFUDD

No matter how long I stay silent, brilliant radiance of the sun,

noble gentle Morfudd,

God will not know of a single hour’s silence

for your poet but weeping pale rain.

Kenji

over 1 year ago

POEM:

DAFYDD AP GWILYM: THE PENIS

FILM: THE DECAMERON (PASOLINI)

Dafydd was not only courtly and romantic but could be bawdy and crude. His Penis/ Y Gal poem may offend some, so seek it on this site – it’s 102. Its words were less shocking then, but it’s still a far cry from the wondrous delight of Sharon Olds. Ahead of Borowczyk and Oshima (among others) i’ve plumped for Pasolini’s medieval earthy bawdiness.

Kenji

over 1 year ago

LAM THI MY DA: GARDEN FRAGRANCE
Last night a bomb exploded on the veranda
But sounds of birds sweeten the air this morning.
I hear the fragrant trees, look in the garden
For two silent clusters of ripe guavas.
(translation from Vietnamese)

FILM: THE LEMON TREE (RIKLIS)

alternatively, another Palestinian film They Do not Exist. And i really like Montale’s poem The Lemon Tree, though i’ve not found the match i want yet

Matt Parks

over 1 year ago

The Weed by Elizabeth Bishop
I dreamed that dead, and meditating,
I lay upon a grave, or bed,
(at least, some cold and close-built bower).
In the cold heart, its final thought
stood frozen, drawn immense and clear,
stiff and idle as I was there;
and we remained unchanged together
for a year, a minute, an hour.
Suddenly there was a motion,
as startling, there, to every sense
as an explosion. Then it dropped
to insistent, cautious creeping
in the region of the heart,
prodding me from desperate sleep.
I raised my head. A slight young weed
had pushed up through the heart and its
green head was nodding on the breast.
(All this was in the dark.)
It grew an inch like a blade of grass;
next, one leaf shot out of its side
a twisting, waving flag, and then
two leaves moved like a semaphore.
The stem grew thick. The nervous roots
reached to each side; the graceful head
changed its position mysteriously,
since there was neither sun nor moon
to catch its young attention.
The rooted heart began to change
(not beat) and then it split apart
and from it broke a flood of water.
Two rivers glanced off from the sides,
one to the right, one to the left,
two rushing, half-clear streams,
(the ribs made of them two cascades)
which assuredly, smooth as glass,
went off through the fine black grains of earth.
The weed was almost swept away;
it struggled with its leaves,
lifting them fringed with heavy drops.
A few drops fell upon my face
and in my eyes, so I could see
(or, in that black place, thought I saw)
that each drop contained a light,
a small, illuminated scene;
the weed-deflected stream was made
itself of racing images.
(As if a river should carry all
the scenes that it had once reflected
shut in its waters, and not floating
on momentary surfaces.)
The weed stood in the severed heart.
“What are you doing there?” I asked.
It lifted its head all dripping wet
(with my own thoughts?)
and answered then: “I grow,” it said,
“but to divide your heart again.”

Film: Malick’s Tree of Life

Robert W Peabody III

over 1 year ago

Good stuff here…does a poem in the film count?

Kenji

over 1 year ago

Well, i’d thought of that- by all means mention it, it all adds to the merry mix. Some Tarkovsky snr poems suit Andrei’s films very well

Matt Parks

over 1 year ago

The Wind Will Take Us by Forugh Farrokhzad

In my small night, ah
the wind has a date with the leaves of the trees
in my small night there is agony of destruction
listen
do you hear the darkness blowing?
I look upon this bliss as a stranger
I am addicted to my despair.

listen do you hear the darkness blowing?
something is passing in the night
the moon is restless and red
and over this rooftop
where crumbling is a constant fear
clouds, like a procession of mourners
seem to be waiting for the moment of rain.
a moment
and then nothing
night shudders beyond this window
and the earth winds to a halt
beyond this window
something unknown is watching you and me.

O green from head to foot
place your hands like a burning memory
in my loving hands
give your lips to the caresses
of my loving lips
like the warm perception of being
the wind will take us
the wind will take us.

film: Kiarostami’s The Wind Will Carry Us

Kenji

over 1 year ago

Ok, then: Hedd Wyn, killed in WW1 in France, posthumously won the bard’s chair at the National Eisteddfod

Gwae fi fy myw mewn oes mor ddreng
A Duw ar drai ar orwel pell;
O’i ol mae dyn, yn deyrn a gwreng,
Yn codi ei awdurdod hell.

Pan deimlodd fyned ymaith
Dduw Cyfododd gledd i ladd ei frawd;
Mae swn yr ymladd ar ein clyw,
A’i gysgod ar fythynnod tlawd.

Mae’r hen delynau genid gynt,
Ynghrog ar gangau’r helyg draw,
A gwaedd y bechgyn lond y gwynt,
A’u gwaed yn gymysg efo’r glaw

Why must I live in this grim age,
When, to a far horizon,
God Has ebbed away, and man, with rage,
Now wields the sceptre and the rod?

Man raised his sword, once God had gone,
To slay his brother, and the roar
Of battlefields now casts upon
Our homes the shadow of the war.

The harps to which we sang are hung,
On willow boughs, and their refrain
Drowned by the anguish of the young
Whose blood is mingled with the rain

Hedd Wyn was the first Welsh language film to be nominated for Foreign Film Oscar. I think Dafydd ap Gwilym could be an interesting subject for film-makers. Anything from mainstream bio to impressions to something on the lines of Colour of Pomegranates

Robert W Peabody III

over 1 year ago

Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood – William Wordsworth 1770–1850

POEM:(Excerpt)
Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

Film clue:

Kenji

over 1 year ago

I liked Jane Campion’s Bright Star, but it lacked an imaginative spark. Tarkovsky made an epic masterpiece with a lot of room to imagine an artist’s life, in Andrei Rublev. Dafydd ap Gwilym’s work gives us a reasonable amount to go on, but biography is limited, which may be freeing. The Straub-Huillet approach to Bach worked well.

When i go in book shops i see so many novels in the best-seller section and poetry books in corners, with low sales. This is something like Hollywood dominating dvd stores and multiplexes, the triumph of mainstream narrative agian, rather than the poetic.

Kenji

over 1 year ago

Er, is the name of the film in the poem, by any chance, Robert?

flip trotsky

over 1 year ago

That’s easy – Don Siegel’s Telefon with Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert W Peabody III

over 1 year ago

Er, is the name of the film in the poem, by any chance, Robert?
Well, yes it is !
I suppose there are more than a few here who don’t know who Natalie Wood is ….and of course this just in re her death

Kenji

over 1 year ago

I recognised her (!), and like a fool started wondering if it was Splendour in the Grass and if that was in colour or b+w, before i studied the poem more carefully

I still want the perfect poem for The Green Ray

Robert W Peabody III

over 1 year ago

I think that scene is from the ending sequence where she…
will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;