Introvert
gentlemen of fine discourse
like birds on a line
I am silent with my memory
of being stone
Poemas sobre el tema: memory
Poemas sobre el tema «memory» en Poets.by.
Repressed memory syndrome
only the flesh
that embassy
from a world with no future
only such a simple window
could keep secret the very story
we dissect
Taking attendance
school used to be a time of lead
I was sworn to answer present
the grammar of children is an old shop
found in a new place
L’esprit d’escalier
I batten like a mad king
on remembered words.
My text should be: “The memory
of the wicked shall rot.”
After I go, I make sport
in imitating the dead,
grown fat on moonlight.
Instant nostalgia
This morning was green and gilt.
Hands this morning were art.
This night, late to make up my accounts, I sigh for it.
Miner
I bled red years in the mine.
I went out of the present, going back and back.
In my absence, the clock sang to my wife.
Selective Memory
This morning at home, looking over
the remains of our past:
where did I patch the house,
where did I paper?
Time Traveller
Now an old
consumptive man,
cold, kept to my bed
and overtaking
the sea in sleep,
I wake to
the first night
I lay with my wife.
In the past
Long past:
cold as a god of business.
Past of which I eat,
almost cloyed.
Past in our own feast,
the lock altered.
Peace time
A whole year goes
to the war with sand.
We remember one another
going to play house
and walk in the fields,
eat cheese-cake and enter
an hour’s ear.
Residual
Thirty years after the sudden death of someone I didn’t know terribly well, what remains? Not his name. Not quite his face, but something of his posture and physique. A strong impression of good-natured and thoughtful conviviality, based on possibly no more than half a dozen conversations, always on the periphery of punk shows. The shock and sadness of his death from a brain tumor. Someone who, on rare occasions when he pops into my head, still makes me smile, and shapes my memory of that whole period in my life. Good times. A good dude.
Wish I remembered his name.
fledgling cuckoo
flopping across the road
adoptive parents
nowhere to be found
poor little rain-crow
didn’t mean to be a parasite
Unforgetting
A year into the pandemic, do I still remember how to kiss, or even to hug? Is it a muscle-memory thing, like riding a bicycle? I’ve forgotten whole languages, one lonely drink at a time. I barely remember what it’s like to be in a room full of strangers. Will we ever pretend that’s normal again?
last year’s pod
still holding on
to next year’s milkweed