Tag Archives: memory

A curious phrase

I love my past
Like a brother
And set a date 
To meet talk
And while
Our time away
Here and now
Engagement with
Each absence
Missed without
Or on purpose
Then and there
To fill in the gaps
What a brother
Might have said
What that memory 
Might have been
Or is it I pause
The reverse
A backwards logic
The curious phrase
I love my brother
Like the past
United miserable
Forgotten separation
Presently future

The Kingdom of No More

I have taken a voyage into the past,
And felt the golden kingdom of No More
Fill my body with cheap delight.

I walk by the Seine and remember reading Flaubert
Sitting in cafés, pretending to be an Existentialist.

My youth, the warm days of memory,
I have jumped dangerously into this pool, not realising,
Or not wanting to realise,
The dangerous game I am playing.

Is it cheap, now, cliché, to call them
Madeleine moments,
To smell Paris as it was before,
When summer musk rose from the trees?

Apart from those blue-capped mountains,
What am I looking for?
I tunnel, further and deeper,
Into my mind and try to
Pluck some lost root from a tree
I forgot to plant.

Shut the gate, young man, if you have any sense:
A deal with the past is worse
Than a pact with Satan.
Have you learnt nothing from books?
Have you learnt nothing from Nature?

But the past, the past – it calls
My name and sings a pretty song
To bid me stay a while longer.

Suddenly, I am aware, awake, alone
Inside my room,
Where I see nothing but the frenzied movement
of a fly that was born in earth,
Once more, a flower I did not plant,
But only inherited.

The wave returns, I try to cling to the shore of now, but feel the pull,
I feel the sand rushing behind me,
I hear the rush of a million shells sweep past me,
Giving into that powerful will –
The joy of the past,
The heady world that each creates,
The sickly simplicity of a time that is no more.

When you die, you cannot tell your story and so others will.
You, you as you, will be forgotten.

On the shore, further up, on the cliff,
I hear someone shout “Hector”.
Is this Achilles?
Or is this Homer?

To Turn and Fall

nine and a half meters; 

a foreseeable twenty more years, 

sixty-three square meters, 

and a large sink where she would hand 

wash the nappies, never again shall she

descend the stairs to a laundry room, 

and the vows —

about three minutes each

(rambling as he would — that an altar has to be

so much like a stage)

 

nine and a half meters;

till they ask me if I do and of course I do—

three hundred guests expecting a cake cut in two

and hand fed, photogenically, between the two

(daring to touch their lips only with cream)

while at least 130 of them cry again,

their awning lids flickering.

 

nine and a half meters;

of stone floors that would crack the skull

of a fleeing bride, no doubt. 

 

nine and a half meters;

of finger biting relatives whose husbands

hush impolitely as they wipe their wet noses

with their off-trend shawls.

 

she’d often thought about fucking those

middle-aged

medium-rare

half-relations.

 

does Jay want to put it in my aunt?

 

nine meters and sixty-seven centimeters

to be exact. 

and it had been so good those first months—

hard against the metal-clinking of the window-blinds

as her cold butt-cheek fled back and forth back and forth;

her hand-plucked nipples catching the cold

in the air. 

when was the last time Jay had sucked on her nipple?

 

nine and a half meters;

nine and a half weeks

of fucking the neighbour in the laundry room.

never again

(the nappies will be hand washed till her fingers

melt off the bone and even then there would be

no more fucking)

only nine more meters.

 

eight now. 

he was there of course;

sat on the sixth row waiting to catch some of the depravity—

the unspoilt scent of alabaster beauty;

he loved the outperformance of it all.

(I guess I did too—

why we kept coming back for more)

 

fuck me in these knickers she had said

pulling elaborate lingerie out of a laundry bag

in the space of cobwebs and concrete residue she undressed

steading herself against the out-of-order sign,

put on stockings so thin you could not take two lovers in a day

without leaving a trace. 

 

such beauty must be broken she said

(even a laundry room can be a stage) 

and he put his fingers in her mouth as they came

 

five meters and thirty centimeters; 

Jay smiled

she would die a thousand poetic deaths only to

have him brush a bush aside as she walked,

hold a hot hand to her cheek and sigh,

for there to be more sickness and less health,

for the stocking he picked out to come undone

thread by thread

 

two meters;

one meter seventy;

 

you’re such a klutz he said as she

ran with new stains across the hall

 

one meter;

 

how she cried as she watched the over-washed clothes

turn and fall

turn and fall

 

twenty centimeters to;

turn and fall.

I, Object

OBJECTS to be lost
OBJECTS to be found
OBJECTS to be forgotten

OBJECTS speak the same language
OBJECTS do not have shadows
OBJECTS are among my papers

OBJECTS my hand might catch
OBJECTS your eyes might see
OBJECTS our lives will waste

OBJECTS realise an infinity of possibilities
OBJECTS represent the final page
OBJECTS respire

OBJECTS omit
OBJECTS remember
OBJECTS memorise

OBJECTS language of shadows
OBJECTS shadows from papers
OBJECTS papers for infinity
OBJECTS infinity behind possibility
OBJECTS possibility of last page