What poems come to mind when thinking about the loss of a loved oned?

The obvious one is 'Stop all the clocks' by W.H. Auden that featured in the movie Four Weddings and a Funeral. Very moving.

W.H. Auden

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 for ever: 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.

There's been a death in the opposite house

Emily Dickinson

There's been a death in the opposite house

As lately as today.

I know it by the numb look

Such houses have alway.

The neighbours rustle in and out,

The doctor drives away.

A window opens like a pod,

Abrupt, mechanically;

Somebody flings a mattress out, -

The children hurry by;

They wonder if It died on that, -

I used to when a boy.

The minister goes stiffly in

As if the house were his,

And he owned all the mourners now,

And little boys besides;

And then the milliner, and the man

Of the appalling trade,

To take the measure of the house.

There'll be that dark parade

Of tassels and of coaches soon;

It's easy as a sign, -

The intuition of the news

In just a country town.

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The Bustle in a House (1108)

By Emily Dickinson

The Bustle in a House

The Morning after Death

Is solemnest of industries

Enacted opon Earth –

The Sweeping up the Heart

And putting Love away

We shall not want to use again

Until Eternity –

____________________________________________________

I meant to find Her when I came --

Emily Dickinson

I meant to find Her when I came --

Death -- had the same design --

But the Success -- was His -- it seems --

And the Surrender -- Mine --

I meant to tell Her how I longed

For just this single time --

But Death had told Her so the first --

And she had past, with Him --

To wander -- now -- is my Repose --

To rest -- To rest would be

A privilege of Hurricane

To Memory -- and Me.

Gone to the land ... of only God knows ...

Torn from my hand by the to and froze ...

Nobody can ever feel such a deep rip ...

Others can never feel life, like my trip ...

Poems for the dead and a pocket full of lies ...

Nothing can bring back, my daughters eyes ...

Words to forgive us who stay behind and live ...

Verses to speak, as if we actually can so give ...

Songs to the dead ...

All within our head ...

Would you enjoy to read the words carved in my headstone on a baby girls grave ...

Or do I feel sorry for myself, so, my expression can be sold or as they say -"save" ...

Take my heartache and lets call it a joke ...

Shrieking with laughter at us sorry o folk ...

As the mother of a dead child in this world and on this planet called Earth ...

My loss, pain and grief is a non true reality and has a zero as whats worth ...

Loved one of my misery ... I beg ...

Loved but forgotten by every leg ...

Loved yet hated as the pain that I made ...

Loved yet debated as the price so paid ...

Thank God it was not your child from your womb ...

A womb in a woman of a torture filled stone tomb ...

Do not speak of your own pain with others ...

Only the simple things are worthy brothers ...

People like to talk about blame ...

I should know as that is my name ...

The Mrs left them and cost him a house ...

Dear oh dear, we are afraid of a mouse ...

Big tough men threaten to punch me in the face over grief ...

because I am a small female who is blown about like a leaf ...

Do not dare to utter the silent pain in your heart ...

They will laugh and ignore and turn it into a dart ...

Respect the dead as they echo inside my head ...

Rude words said, make me want to be so dead ...

Respect their brother and their very best friend ...

but never ever think about my pain to so mend ...

We expect respect and silence and care ...

yet dump on the mother as if angels dare ...

Dare to say that time heals all wounds .... oh yeah!!! ...

And Jesus and God will then appear ... in a cute pair!!!

I respect your dead but I bet you don't mine ...

This is our life and we say it is all just "fine" ...

Get over it ... move on and be strong ...

Get on up there, singing my only song ...

I am humble down to my bent old knees ...

But sympathy is just another word "gee's" ...

What words will comfort you and set your dead straight ...

I love the angels and they all call me the name "Mate" ...

But the living hate ...

the living loathe ...

Who wants to hear it and I swear it is none!!!

Not a single living soul under this old sun!!!

The living fear the realms of the dead ...

if you see them, you're sick in the head ...

A mental illness and please go away ...

Only the personal price we do pay ...

People only care when they feel this way ...

Empathy is not real in this age and day ...

I care about you but you think I am a freak ...

My love is no more than the ranting weak ...

My sadness flows from eyes that are old ...

Yet I can be a man or a soldier, so bold ...

You can pretend that death never touched you ...

Listen to the stories of how others are the few ...

Count all your blessings and never look back ...

Never wear pink because you only wear black ...

Down in a hole in the ground, covered in dirt ...

My little angel wears a white dress not a skirt ...

Tending a grave in a cemetery forever ...

This hand has found death as a tether ...

Flowers on a casket and a penny for your thought ...

Aftermath of death only ever equals a big naught ...

Let us now pray and sing a sad song to the dead ...

Let others tell you, that you are "sick in the head' ...

I hope it never happens to any other person ...

yet they wish my pain to simply then worsen ...

People do not care and by the wayside we fall ...

"she has a dead kid so she never stands tall" ...

Do this and do that and change like a ghost ...

because not one living soul will be your host ...

Forget them and suffer with silence in time ...

Grievers learn to practice the rhyme of mime ...

You ask for a poem and you ask for an answer ...

Death is the ultimate cruel old familiar romancer ...

You want a few words to express my thinking about my dead child ...

but you will be the first one to call me a woman who has gone wild ...

Oh child with curly blond hair like an angel of the Lord ...

How can they call her just another word for a horde ...

Oh baby of mine so filled with sparkling life ...

how can they know that my pain is my wife ...

Never dare to share this utter loss ...

Or I will suffer the "I don't give a toss" ...

Let them defile the name of their own kin ...

Let them not know me and label me a sin ...

Let them laugh as my hand tends a grave ...

Let them scoff as my own soul I do so save ...

Write whatever you like my friend ...

My words say that I'm around the bend ...