Drunk, I'd keep a lamp lit to find my sword, The blare of horns sounded throughout the camp. Soldiers ate meat under waving banners; The military band played boisterous tunes. Autumn brought our troops to the battlefield.
Carried by a charger at full gallop, My bow thwipped, sending swift arrows flying. We restored Imperial lands, boldly, And won great fame for fighting gallantly, But fame grows thin and gray just like my hair.
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do no grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.
Twelve o'clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of memory And all its clear relations, Its divisions and precisions, Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one, The street lamp sputtered, The street lamp muttered, The street lamp said, 'Regard that woman Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door Which opens on her like a grin. You see the border of her dress Is torn and stained with sand, And you see the corner of her eye Twists like a crooked pin.'
The memory throws up high and dry A crowd of twisted things; A twisted branch upon the beach Eaten smooth, and polished As if the world gave up The secret of its skeleton, Stiff and white. A broken spring in a factory yard, Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two, The street lamp said, 'Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter, Slips out its tongue And devours a morsel of rancid butter.' So the hand of a child, automatic, Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay. I could see nothing behind that child's eye. I have seen eyes in the street Trying to peer through lighted shutters, And a crab one afternoon in a pool, An old crab with barnacles on his back, Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three, The lamp sputtered, The lamp muttered in the dark. The lamp hummed: 'Regard the moon, La lune ne garde aucune rancune, She winks a feeble eye, She smiles into corners. She smoothes the hair of the grass. The moon has lost her memory. A washed-out smallpox cracks her face, Her hand twists a paper rose, That smells of dust and old Cologne, She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells That cross and cross across her brain.' The reminiscence comes Of sunless dry geraniums And dust in crevices, Smells of chestnuts in the streets, And female smells in shuttered rooms, And cigarettes in corridors And cocktail smells in bars.
The lamp said, 'Four o'clock, Here is the number on the door. Memory! You have the key, The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair; Mount. The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall, Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.'
My days are out of joint and shuffled up,
and memories are pictures cast upon
the floor, and rummaged through 'til chaos reigns,
and I pick random recollections out
of all the events ever to transpire.
They seem no more my life than another's:
a glance, a glimpse, a blank firing of mind,
a wicked hope that truth will come to me.
But all I see are monochrome mindscapes
that could've been wrenched out of another mind,
or made from AI's collage artistry
to serve some distant master's deep wish to
learn what hot-injected time does to a soul,
and if shuffled scene stacks can make one whole?
When I was a child,
for a time,
the bridge was out.
They were replacing the rusty
iron trestle bridge
with a thick-slab concrete
monstrosity.
I could go down to the river,
and I could see the
scarred and marred
construction site,
& the big yellow machines
that sat dormant on the weekends.
But one couldn't cross the river --
not unless one was willing to get wet,
and was a better swimmer than I
(and it was autumn & the water cold.)
It was a strong current that swept
along between two steep banks.
It was not a great distance,
nor were they violent waters.
But that brown water moved with
such smooth swiftness.
I dream about the time the bridge was out,
now & again,
and wonder what it was
about those weeks
that still has meaning to my mind.
Words memorized rote are a meal
wholly undigested,
That's why memorization is
utterly detested.
Rote learning is, somehow, bloating
and yet never filling.
One takes it all in by way of
monotonous drilling,
but while you're still filling your cup
you're already spilling.
You pass your test and purge it all.
It's so unfulfilling.
If I may, please let me suggest
that here's what you should do:
get the gist, play with it, and find
out what it means to you.