Tag Archives: memory

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.

Memory II

In the shivered mirror of

memory one sliver

slides down to

touch another

creating something that

never happened.

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.

Kaleidoscope

You think—

if only my life was

replete with incident

like a novel, but then you

twist the kaleidoscope of

memory and all sorts of

events tumble out that

prickle your skin with

shame or flush you with

embarrassment or

stiffen or moisten you, but

they’re all just pieces of

coloured time and maybe

you can rearrange them into a

book, or pare them like a

bone or a pencil into a

poem, or perhaps you would

prefer one last twist to find a

better pattern or

smash it and sweep the

whole damned mess of

shards into the

oubliette of forgotten.

A Tree Grows in Manchester

It’s raining again so it must be

Manchester and it’s late and my

tram also so I am

leaning against this tree in

St. Peter’s Square watching

late trams pass, their

cargoes tired (though

that girl is pretty even as

she yawns), when the

tree’s sap seeps through my

sodden shoulder making one

vein of brotherhood, one

lone tree bearing me,

lonesome and needing someone to

lean on, something

alive.

 

Your roots are tight-bound in an

iron grid bespeckled with butts

but you seem to thrive so

perhaps you like all this

noise and bustle, and maybe the

sap from shoulders seeping into your

tough veins, some

symbiosis of the city.

 

My tram hoots up from

Piccadilly, my cold bed calls.

Bud well, buddy, and thanks for

your support.

That Girl, Fanny

You don’t turn up in an

online search as you

surely would if you hadn’t

died at –what -21, 22?

Forgive me, I’ve

forgotten your birthday, along with

so much else lost in the

long life you didn’t have, but

(and this would make your Roman nose

wrinkle with amusement)

you have never been forgotten in

all those long years that have been

empty of you.

A Mother and a Daughter

As she was going she

went back to those

childhood woods where she

could hide for hours and

be naughty but you

resented your absence from a

world where you

weren’t conceived or

even imagined.

Just Words

Kind words sink silently into the

memory-sponge of the walls but

harsh words carom around the house

forever, their cockroach-carapaces

impossible to crack.

GIF

Do you know you are a GIF in
someone’s Performance Art? The
gold in your blue uniform glittering in
old sun, your hot-pants emphasising your
long dark legs, your
silver batons never quite
twirled above your
shy smile.

But then we are all a GIF in
someone’s mind, some moment
burnt, looped in the soul, some
mannerism eternally annoying, some
gesture that caught in the throat, a
split second when the mask slipped, and
your face cracked open with a
shy smile.

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