dedalus Posted August 11, 2011 Share Posted August 11, 2011 Little Miss Morimoto (for YM with rueful affection, in memory of a light interlude that went disastrously comically wrong) Silence is the ultimate response to impulses, to importunities, casting a veil, a cloudlike mist, over all our certainties. In the pressing heat of these long summer days, amid the sonorous sound of morning cicadas, a cold icicle pierces, a splinter, a knife, into the centre of my life: winter weighs in, and as a frozen apple on the frost-whipped tree, so dies all feeling between you and me. Your eyes, your smile: the eternal feminine mystery, returning, recharged, in each cycle of human history. Heliotropic, a turning towards the sun, this is what you were to me; but after light and warmth, what one needs from the sun is constancy. We grow old, day by day, we that have not succumbed to childhood illnesses, road accidents, the wiles of the recruiting sergeant; and those who have lived well, flushed with wine and income, flood the news with interviews while the rest of us shiver in the shadows, clipping coupons, bravely dissolving, probably facing worse to come. If the rich could live forever (organ transplants, hormone injections) that would be the crowning insult. I think of Herod, of Croesus of Lydia, of more recent spectacular implosions: as long as they can die in shame and agony some justice lingers in the world. Pheromes dropping from heaven above (a scent that arches from each pore) can make the boys and girls feel giddy, as interest aroused, they reach for more: emotions sliding, then a skiddy into touch like a greasy football: ahh, romantic love! Love is infernal, it is eternal. Words written upon a page, or an all-consuming radical rage? Groan and thrust against a wall, say pious prayers before each meal not to think these things at all? Whatever you say, baby doll. Holy moley, I’ll be late for work! Morning dawns on America. It never seems to dawn anywhere else. The night simply stops, the day begins and ignoring a multitude, a plenitude of sins, we drag ourselves out of sleep, from very occasional happy dreams, (the nightmares usually spring you awake) to face another day, its name and number. We no longer slumber among the gods of ancient times for we no longer live in ancient times and cannot share the old traditions. We live in a spiritually shrunken world of unbridled technology: the 10 GB RAM, the speed, the add-ons and additions, the feelings of envy and awe! (is this all that we're living for?) The power! The potential! The hype! Surf U-Tube, download, talk on Skype. There has to be some other connection, nothing to do with blinding speed, a connection between present and past: without memory, non-RAM human memory, life would lose all meaning. In the deep dark passages of a devious brain remains a train of thought: snail-slime seen under black light. Last week’s e-mails … are the dusty archives of the non-dawning day: darling, however so much I loved you, we could never quite match the passion of last week’s e-mails. Now, of course, there are no e-mails at all. My darling … your black sparkling eyes your body like a bolt of thunder! We met in June, parted in July, and I sometimes wonder why these things come down like summer storms. Love is … love is a flight of birds over a morning lake, a rustle of wings over stillness, a descent of silence. Love is … love is giving in hope of return, trying so hard, so very hard to understand, reaching only approximation. There was affection, yes. There was style and languorous grace! But when I reached out for your heart there was nothing there, an absence, nothing but an empty space. Silence is the ultimate response to all the things we hope for, to all the things we fear, to all the things we cannot understand. When you die, sweet girl, as we all must die, a kaleidoscope of images will flash, unbidden, across your aged, your withered brain, and of this present pulsating summer not a single memory will remain. And that will be the final end. Yes, that will be the end. But will it? Long after you and I are dust and clay some earnest future scholar may unearth this poem, and recall the beauty, cruelty of it all. Quote Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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