Out of Town

Source: Favim

Years later, the water still drips— 

there's no one to tighten the valve. 

It courses through old pipes 

down to the septic tank. 

Next morning in the cellar 

I start the motor with a stick. 

It shakes and rumbles, and chirps— 

the switch is broken is all. 

At night the water arrives 

illegally, undergroundly, 

to the very grave where 

last spring parsley sprouted, 

and at the foot, beside it, 

feral sorrel darkens 

tastily and tartly 

like clandestine sex. 

The motor lifts the spirits 

and returns the night's deductions. 

It's morning, I hum softly— 

a stranger will replace me. 

In the cellar a stream of light 

rinses the window grate, 

it pulses, strikes the meter— 

I catch my rhythm on the stairs. 

And for memory's sake I hum— 

as I pass the septic tank— 

a fluid, underground song 

about sorrel and a stranger.

~ Piotr Sommer

Peace Lilies

Source: Chester’s Flower Shop And Greenhouses website 

I collect them now, it seems. Like

sea-shells or old

thimbles. One for

Father. One for

Mother. Two for my sweet brothers.

Odd how little

they require of

me. Unlike the

ones they were sent in memory

of. No sudden

shrilling of the

phone. No harried

midnight flights. Only a little

water now and

then. Scant food and

light. See how I’ve

brought them all together here in

this shaded space

beyond the stairs.

Even when they

thirst, they summon me with nothing

more than a soft,

indifferent furl-

ing of their leaves.

~ Cathy Smith Bowers

Peace Lilies

Source: Chester’s Flower Shop And Greenhouses website 

I collect them now, it seems. Like

sea-shells or old

thimbles. One for

Father. One for

Mother. Two for my sweet brothers.

Odd how little

they require of

me. Unlike the

ones they were sent in memory

of. No sudden

shrilling of the

phone. No harried

midnight flights. Only a little

water now and

then. Scant food and

light. See how I’ve

brought them all together here in

this shaded space

beyond the stairs.

Even when they

thirst, they summon me with nothing

more than a soft,

indifferent furl-

ing of their leaves.

~ Cathy Smith Bowers

From the Silence of Many Trees

Source: Facebook/Favim

Sometimes a tree strikes your face with the memory of loss.
Hickory bark keeps the furrows of the parched fields you left.
The sycamore leaves turning away in the wind are your father’s hands.

From what tree Absalom hanged himself, we never bother to ask.
Of course Jesus blighted the fig that failed to bear its bloodred fruit,
But about the wood that fashioned the true cross, the gospel remains silent.

No matter what changes the earth below them has suffered, geese
Continue their night migrations by checking the alignment of stars.
Our scorched world is only one of a trillion celestial fires,

Although we have never heard that crystalline music Pythagoras sang of.
So we find that grief is a prodigal child, missing at the moment of grief.
The soul should love the snails that gather rusty leaves into themselves.

Did we model the flute on a bolt-struck tree graced by wind?
Or one hollowed by disease? Or on a trunk the woodpecker broke into,
First looking for a meal of sweet termites, then settling for a home?

Why should the tall fir fallen after many years from an escarpment
Care if we hear it? The broken roots shake soil, shake themselves awake,
The sound of someone rising from his knees after long prayer.

~ Temple Cone

From the Silence of Many Trees

Source: Facebook/Favim

Sometimes a tree strikes your face with the memory of loss.
Hickory bark keeps the furrows of the parched fields you left.
The sycamore leaves turning away in the wind are your father’s hands.

From what tree Absalom hanged himself, we never bother to ask.
Of course Jesus blighted the fig that failed to bear its bloodred fruit,
But about the wood that fashioned the true cross, the gospel remains silent.

No matter what changes the earth below them has suffered, geese
Continue their night migrations by checking the alignment of stars.
Our scorched world is only one of a trillion celestial fires,

Although we have never heard that crystalline music Pythagoras sang of.
So we find that grief is a prodigal child, missing at the moment of grief.
The soul should love the snails that gather rusty leaves into themselves.

Did we model the flute on a bolt-struck tree graced by wind?
Or one hollowed by disease? Or on a trunk the woodpecker broke into,
First looking for a meal of sweet termites, then settling for a home?

Why should the tall fir fallen after many years from an escarpment
Care if we hear it? The broken roots shake soil, shake themselves awake,
The sound of someone rising from his knees after long prayer.

~ Temple Cone

Quote on living

Source: Tumblr/Favim

Listen to the people who love you. Believe that they are worth living for even when you don't believe it. Seek out the memories depression takes away and project them into the future. Be brave; be strong; take your pills. Exercise because it's good for you even if every step weighs a thousand pounds. Eat when food itself disgusts you. Reason with yourself when you have lost your reason.

~ Andrew Solomon

Quote on living

Source: Tumblr/Favim

Listen to the people who love you. Believe that they are worth living for even when you don't believe it. Seek out the memories depression takes away and project them into the future. Be brave; be strong; take your pills. Exercise because it's good for you even if every step weighs a thousand pounds. Eat when food itself disgusts you. Reason with yourself when you have lost your reason.

~ Andrew Solomon

Good God

Image: Ambro @ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Instead of casting them out of paradise,

Instead of making them labor in pain and sweat,

Instead of instilling tristesse after coitus,

Instead of giving them fire to burn their house down

And light their way into the outer world,

He could have split them, each with a memory of the other,

And put them each into a separate world.

~ Mark Jarman

______________________________________________

Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart. ~ Thomas Fuller

Good God

Image: Ambro @ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Instead of casting them out of paradise,

Instead of making them labor in pain and sweat,

Instead of instilling tristesse after coitus,

Instead of giving them fire to burn their house down

And light their way into the outer world,

He could have split them, each with a memory of the other,

And put them each into a separate world.

~ Mark Jarman

______________________________________________

Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart. ~ Thomas Fuller

In Memory of Anyone Unknown to Me

Source: Tumblr/Favim

At this particular time I have no one

Particular person to grieve for, though there must

Be many, many unknown ones going to dust

Slowly, not remembered for what they have done

Or left undone. For these, then, I will grieve

Being impartial, unable to deceive.

How they lived, or died, is quite unknown,

And, by that fact gives my grief purity--

An important person quite apart from me

Or one obscure who drifted down alone.

Both or all I remember, have a place.

For these I never encountered face to face.

Sentiment will creep in. I cast it out

Wishing to give these classical repose,

No epitaph, no poppy and no rose

From me, and certainly no wish to learn about

The way they lived or died. In earth or fire

They are gone. Simply because they were human, I admire.

~ Elizabeth Jennings

_________________________________________

Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin. 

~ Barbara Kingsolver

In Memory of Anyone Unknown to Me

Source: Tumblr/Favim

At this particular time I have no one

Particular person to grieve for, though there must

Be many, many unknown ones going to dust

Slowly, not remembered for what they have done

Or left undone. For these, then, I will grieve

Being impartial, unable to deceive.

How they lived, or died, is quite unknown,

And, by that fact gives my grief purity--

An important person quite apart from me

Or one obscure who drifted down alone.

Both or all I remember, have a place.

For these I never encountered face to face.

Sentiment will creep in. I cast it out

Wishing to give these classical repose,

No epitaph, no poppy and no rose

From me, and certainly no wish to learn about

The way they lived or died. In earth or fire

They are gone. Simply because they were human, I admire.

~ Elizabeth Jennings

_________________________________________

Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin. 

~ Barbara Kingsolver

And Yet The Books

Photo credit: Kevin_P from morguefile.com

And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,

That appeared once, still wet

As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,

And, touched, coddled, began to live

In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,

Tribes on the march, planets in motion.

“We are, ” they said, even as their pages

Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame

Licked away their letters. So much more durable

Than we are, whose frail warmth

Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.

I imagine the earth when I am no more:

Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,

Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.

Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,

Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

~ Czeslaw Milosz

And Yet The Books

Photo credit: Kevin_P from morguefile.com

And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,

That appeared once, still wet

As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,

And, touched, coddled, began to live

In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,

Tribes on the march, planets in motion.

“We are, ” they said, even as their pages

Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame

Licked away their letters. So much more durable

Than we are, whose frail warmth

Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.

I imagine the earth when I am no more:

Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,

Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.

Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,

Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

~ Czeslaw Milosz

Forgetfulness

Image: digitalart/FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

~ Billy Collins

Forgetfulness

Image: digitalart/FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

~ Billy Collins