go look if you must,
where they are, those years that passed,
hollowed-out days and kamikaze nights,
folded and creased,
out of the sun’s knowing reach;
put your hand through
that unremembered morass,
does she rustle in the echo of your breath,
a poem whose words have withered away,
memory holding an empty notebook
in its silent bones;
what is left of that day
when the moon turned tricks in the river,
silver arches heaving in her crescent arms,
how does it feel, that freedom,
decomposed, it’s insides peeling
flaccid and parched,
all those lines we drew,
dividing spaces, names,
tips of unyielding smiles sawn off
to fit our stencilled squares;
go look if you must,
the nineties are unravelling,
somewhere there,
sift through the ashen residue,
elbow deep in lifeless weeks,
the fetid air drawing you
into her timeless lair;
go look if you must,
carry a compass, a map,
mark your sky with motionless stars;
the unlived past is a nubile mistress,
i’m not sure
from where she lies,
there is a way,
any way,
back home.
So many wonderful lines in this….capturing how time escapes us but our memories bring us home…beautiful!
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Thank you so much…
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I love the play on the human body and the moon and elements – particularly -when the moon turned tricks in the river -there is a sense of time lost but also of time spent which was hopefully good
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Thanks so much Jae. Glad you liked it.
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I wonder where the nineties lie, in darkness or in light.
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Me too… always…
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We can’t go back to look but our memories do remind of those days even giving us feelings of regret or longing for something we did or didn’t do. Either way it doesn’t matter for being still alive there is still more living to do.
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your use of imagery is astounding
Have a nice Wednesday
much love…
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Thanks Gillena…
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Some amazing lines in this poem – like “memory holding an empty notebook” and “the unlived past is a nubile mistress”. Wow! I love that there is a way back home.
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Thanks so much Sherry..glad you liked it.
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“when the moon turned tricks in the river,
silver arches heaving in her crescent arms,
how does it feel, that freedom,
decomposed, it’s insides peeling”
This is one of my favourite verses of yours. You write so fluidly that some of the words slide past me, if I blink.
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Thanks Bird-Bard…right back at you.
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the nineties are unravelling,
somewhere there,
sift through the ashen residue
Such a lot of depth in your poem.
Beautifully written.
Lots of love,
Sanaa
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Thank you Sanaa 🙂
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Wow! Come to think of it, the potential of love in the 1990s of my life was extremely high and quite definitely narrowed by the boxes I chose. Shall I regret? Try to find my way there? Facebook, with its frequent arrivals of aged people/memories of connections, occasionally sparks, but it is no way. But I’ve been opening long sealed boxes to write about those days. I wish I had written this poem. A line of Yeats’ “When you are old” echoes through here. Which is the “Pilgrim soul”–the one who stayed or left?
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Thanks so much Susan… Am smiling at your mention of FB and it becoming the wormhole to get into the past… 🙂
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