End of another year, beginning of the next. I've been ruminating on time a fair bit recently, with following results.
This reads, intentionally, a bit antiquated (even for me!) I thought it suited the subject but maybe it just sounds pretentious?
(More to come)
This reads, intentionally, a bit antiquated (even for me!) I thought it suited the subject but maybe it just sounds pretentious?
The Past
“The past is our devoted companion.
An enduring spectre age magnifies”
the philosopher claims, lighting his pipe.
Yet bygone time is no commonplace wraith
but an apparition that’s most complex.
From afar it’s terra incognita
haunted by projection and conjecture
while twin poisons, regret and nostalgia,
taint our personal proximate echoes.
Tangles of memory and history
confuse our elders’ recollections too.
Their era is alluring nonetheless,
my grandparents’ youth seems vital, vibrant,
discerned in part via family whispers
distilled through the detritus of their lives.
Dusty lavender, musty tobacco smoke
miniature moments with deckle edges
indigo jottings with a fountain pen
partial thoughts left in a familiar hand.
A dead King’s portrait on a postage stamp,
the gritty striker on a used matchbox,
seven tarnished military buttons ,
a pressed flower in an empty notebook.
Then last of all but not least, not at all
one Sunday, a seldom opened drawer.
Inside a face no memory can trace.
One of the ghosts I keep company with
a lone cipher for similar billions.
The poet stands, stubs out his cigarette
the door closes quietly behind him.
“The past is our devoted companion.
An enduring spectre age magnifies”
the philosopher claims, lighting his pipe.
Yet bygone time is no commonplace wraith
but an apparition that’s most complex.
From afar it’s terra incognita
haunted by projection and conjecture
while twin poisons, regret and nostalgia,
taint our personal proximate echoes.
Tangles of memory and history
confuse our elders’ recollections too.
Their era is alluring nonetheless,
my grandparents’ youth seems vital, vibrant,
discerned in part via family whispers
distilled through the detritus of their lives.
Dusty lavender, musty tobacco smoke
miniature moments with deckle edges
indigo jottings with a fountain pen
partial thoughts left in a familiar hand.
A dead King’s portrait on a postage stamp,
the gritty striker on a used matchbox,
seven tarnished military buttons ,
a pressed flower in an empty notebook.
Then last of all but not least, not at all
one Sunday, a seldom opened drawer.
Inside a face no memory can trace.
One of the ghosts I keep company with
a lone cipher for similar billions.
The poet stands, stubs out his cigarette
the door closes quietly behind him.
(More to come)
Comment