Fault not Mnemosyne for being unreliable;
since the fissure opened she has been wandering on the outside
blind and blindfolded; tiles from her mosaic body flake off, until she
is only searching fingertips and striding thighs;
occasionally an angel of the Lord will come,
gather and re-attach many lost stones,
and gently redirect her, pointing — but she cannot
see, so she meanders again as soon as his hands leave her shoulders on his departing
to some other emergency within the meanwhile;
thus she stumbles, approaches the threshold to the interior
–when some square of azure breaks free
and you remember something as though
it were sent, but it wasn’t, it’s merely that, on her own, she’s just
forever disassembling and lost, here, in the aftermath.
wonderful
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Thank you! So glad you delighted in it. I must say, though, that I felt bad for posting something before popping out the second part on Ullmann…
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This poem stands alone very well
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Reblogged this on Kindra M. Austin.
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Wow, Kindra — I totally missed this reblog. So kind of you! Sorry I’ve been MIA.
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No apologies necessary. Life, you know. 💜 I do hope all is well with you. 🙂
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Ups and downs, like everyone else. :-) You must be worrying because of my online silence. I have never really stopped writing, but none of it is here — expect to see more soon!
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I have been wondering where you’d gone. I check your blog every day for activity. I am happy to hear from you. 😊 I’m quite fond of you and your writing.
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That is so kind. I’m flattered!
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Have a unicorn. 🦄 And a funny octopus because he’s cute 🐙
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Hah!
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I like giving presents. 😁
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I enjoyed the image of the stones and the square of azure. Can’t say that I fully understand the meaning here, but when reading it aloud, I found the pacing steady and pleasant.
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So glad you enjoyed it, Carla. The azure is the color of the heavens, and often a memory can feel sent, as though it were part of our fate, some recall of some unattended and important thing, but really such are often just blips in the blinded life of Memory, who wanders aimlessly when she’s not steered. The brokenness of the world often sends up things like that — where the tectonic plates of things stir up something that feels important because it is an eruption, interruption, disruption — when, in truth, the important things are usually quiet, such as the moving of said plates — if even that. The whole is damnable in its finitude, but lovely nonetheless, and worthy of our care — even wayward Memory.
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Issues of memory are fascinating! The ways that it mutates, evolves, is both reliable and unreliable, and our control and/or lack of control over it. The sadness of it and its joys. Not quite sure how one steers memory? Selecting what should be remembered? What should not be? Interesting to ponder.
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Yes! –and then there are things that simply spontaneously come to us on the recall, as though they were interrupting us for some reason, and they can even feel important — though they’re not always so.
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Pingback: Poetry, Power, and the Arrest of Thought (Part One) | Into the Clarities
Hmmm
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Something catch your attention?
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