Category Archives: Memories

Voke’s Wagon

I have no idea where “Love” is in my

record collection, though I

know it’s in there

somewhere.

 

Sick on the ill-digested

emotions of others I

ponder words and their

unexpected plosions, the

 

way words kick back at your

expectations, won’t mean

what you want them to

mean, defy you, brazen and

 

bold, but bugger them just

provoke thought

invoke memory

evoke emotion.

Memory V

Do “is” and “was” and “will be” collide and fall into an undifferentiated heap of time?

Siri Hustvedt, “Memories of the Future”, which has been my companion and prompt throughout this series of poems.

 

When we reopen

might you also

reopen love?

Maybe love is in the

Airbnb?

 

I remember your

mouth on me, my

mouth on you, the

hot, wet inside of you, the

squish of your

sweaty breasts on my

flat chest.

 

We all want the open air, yet the

tight, kempt air of a

steamy bedroom summons our

stoppered desires.

 

White freesias pop open in their

vase of clean water, the

sun dipping behind them, a

nascent moon somewhere in that

deep blue sky we have

extraordinarily lived under

throughout these

strange months of

excommunicating our own

loved ones.

 

Warnings are everywhere, as they

always have been, but now have

bizarre power:

“No Entry”, “No

Through Road”,

“Keep Your Distance”,

“Baby on Board”,

“One Way”.

 

When we reopen

might you also

reopen love? For

just one day?

No….an increment of

shards of days from

past, present, future, those

fractured memories from which we

try to make a

remembered life?

Memory IV

What do we recall of

past loves? Are there

letters? Gifts?

Mementoes? Something

bought together that has

somehow stayed in your hands?

A book recommended? A

piece of music? A

particular place? A

view? Or maybe it’s a

scent or a way you were

touched, a crooked morning smile, a

way of speaking, words

said, or words you wished

hadn’t been said? Or

more recently was there an

email or a gif or a

post on Twitter or

Instagram? A secret

message on any one of a

hundred sites? Will you

remember what all that

meant? What you felt, what you

thought was so

important and is so

irrelevant now but

lingers on in your

memory?

Memory III

Life picks a way through

thorns, which some feel

sharply while others

brush past but each

thorn retains something

torn off, a shred, a

tatter, sometimes a whole

skein of memory which

hangs there forever

beyond recall.

A Minuet for Company

Sometimes I dance a Bourrée

or an Allemande, a Gigue

when happy, a Sarabande

when sad, a Courante to

cheer myself up, a

Minuet for company for

even when company is in

short supply, the

air moves as though there were

skirts whirling

somewhere nearby.

Memory II

In the shivered mirror of

memory one sliver

slides down to

touch another

creating something that

never happened.

Nightdress

Her sage-green nightdress
sways on the washing-line
as though she were within it,
dancing in that “I
don’t care” attitude, that
subtle bump of rhythm that says
Come Hither,
Go Yon.
Want me?
Find me.

Memory 1

It’s strange how memory

rearranges things like

walls in a studio set so that

certainties become

uncertain and

faces blur so even your

own face in

old photos seems to have a

querulousness as though

wondering whether to

remember or forget.

Murmuration

Is there sadness in the

silence of the night or

is there hope?

 

We can’t be quiet,

us people: we are like a

murmuration of starlings,

noisy, chattering, nosy,

changing direction in the

blink of an eye and

changing again a

moment later,

noise being our nature, and

agglomeration.

 

Sometimes my stomach aches

as though I wanted to

give birth, but its just

emotion congealed with

apathy, the sad desire for

things that have changed to

stay unchanged.

 

But then the

murmuration

calls me to its

hectic ruckus

and my wings

open of their

own accord.

Wine with Water

Once or twice, the wondrous
gush of her orgasm would be darker,
hotter, my probing penis having
hastened her flow, the
egg that got away smearing its
red yolk onto my groin, the sheets, her
rouging cheeks, as if I would mind her
fertility, her womanhood, as if I
wouldn’t drink a little
wine with her water and not
love her for it.

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