Mary Guibert

Mary Guibert

Mother of Jeff Buckley.
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DRV002 Various Untitled Various - Digital Rock Vision 2(DVD-V, Comp, PAL) Digital Press DRV002 France 2003 Sell This Version

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November 12, 2011
POEM TITLE: His Majestic Voice


November 12, 2011
I wrote this for Jeff because like many, I love your son an for some reason I think you will like it. This is for you, his Mother. Thanks for bringing him into the world.

I heard a voice he sang a sacred tune,
He played the harp and hearts to drunken moon,
He sang so well he pleased the Lord,
Divinity charmed and chimed his chords,
The seventh heavens began to plead and pledge,
A space for this Angel - even the Angels wept!
For this boys soul was so truly blessed,
But the world bewildered with unrest - it detests!
It destroys what it can not unravel, touch or taste.

Voraciously blind he knew not were he crept,
Between the heavens or the streets that bled,
Between white sheets, both crisp and wet,
Where sleeps too close for comfort...
T'was there he slept!

He drowned in Dream Rivers too deep,
And sank before he had time to repent.
Though he did fast and pray a pious vesta,
The Angels still feared his soul would fester...
...But his voice was like you and I have cried,
Like when you first heard how young Scotty had died,
I hear back then even Old furry sang the blues,
Upon being stricken by the sad and grievous news.
Whilst down and out in Memphis Tennessee,
His voice carried down the river of Mississippi.

But it was just one song I heard him play,
No, I never got to meet him,
But I still felt his pain;
Like when one feels,
When one's love is lost,
And one with earth like many particles of dust,
Slipping between the fingers of love and lust,
But we all are human, and all humans must rust,
Then all that man is worth is
That in which he trusts.

He trusted no-one, but God and himself,
For no Ocean is too deep enough to delve.
And then when the Dark Angel came to draw his breath,
He left this world with nothing, and little regrets,
No, he did not cry for the loss of his life,
For he may have lost a mistress,
But he had gained a wife;
He'd found his home
When he'd gone astray his path,
Upon a drunken evening of lovers past,
But this story doth not end here my friends,
For t'is a true lover's story and truth hath no end.

Copyright 2008 © Najma Hussain

(Phosphorescence1001 – Original Poetry)