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My brother collects dirt in tiny vials
keeping samples of so many places
lined up on a shelf in his hall.
I collect air with awed inhales
breathing stories in and hoping
to remember them long enough to write them.
I remember,
although my memory is more solid than my language.
I can't ever find the words.
How do I line up the flamenco dancers
on the streets in Spain?
The Belgium stars that stretch as endlessly
as the canals in Amsterdam?
How do I tell
of the widower in Frankfurt
who explained the war he lived through
without mention
of the dirty vile air
he must have tasted?
How do I hold the voices of the little man in Italy
who sings opera on the streets
in a filthy tuxedo?
I can't,
so I take nothing home.
In the end we all take nothing,
not even our borrowed skin
or the air we've shared but left behind.
We leave only the stories,
and filtered too many times,
the stories are retold.
I want you to gather my memories,
pluck them from me
as though you were gathering blackberries.
Taste them, consume them
then tell them as though they were your own;
Spread them like my brother's sons
will sprinkle his vials of dirt in their gardens.
Let these people and their stories pass through your own
and yours through them,
And when you cannot find the words either,
let the resonance and tone of their languages
be the breath you exhale.
Then, at the end,
though you will take nothing, too,
you'll have left my life and their lives,
and yours,
to live and live again.
~MNH
keeping samples of so many places
lined up on a shelf in his hall.
I collect air with awed inhales
breathing stories in and hoping
to remember them long enough to write them.
I remember,
although my memory is more solid than my language.
I can't ever find the words.
How do I line up the flamenco dancers
on the streets in Spain?
The Belgium stars that stretch as endlessly
as the canals in Amsterdam?
How do I tell
of the widower in Frankfurt
who explained the war he lived through
without mention
of the dirty vile air
he must have tasted?
How do I hold the voices of the little man in Italy
who sings opera on the streets
in a filthy tuxedo?
I can't,
so I take nothing home.
In the end we all take nothing,
not even our borrowed skin
or the air we've shared but left behind.
We leave only the stories,
and filtered too many times,
the stories are retold.
I want you to gather my memories,
pluck them from me
as though you were gathering blackberries.
Taste them, consume them
then tell them as though they were your own;
Spread them like my brother's sons
will sprinkle his vials of dirt in their gardens.
Let these people and their stories pass through your own
and yours through them,
And when you cannot find the words either,
let the resonance and tone of their languages
be the breath you exhale.
Then, at the end,
though you will take nothing, too,
you'll have left my life and their lives,
and yours,
to live and live again.
~MNH
Beautiful my dear. I felt like you were speaking to me directly. One of my favorite poems of yours.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the feedback. ! And for liking it, of course.
Delete"Not even our borrowed skin"
ReplyDeleteThat's the long and the short of it, eh Mari?
Such rich, sumptuous, and passionate writing here.
In the end, yes, that about caps it. And if we extend "the end" out just a month or so, we don't even leave that borrowed skin behind either. Thinking about it now, a couple of weeks after writing this, I believe that even explains both why I write and why I sometimes can't. It's overwhelming to consider that all we really leave behind (aside from DNA if we've had kids) are the feelings, ideas, or events we are able to convey, and only if they're remarkable or we're able to convey them in a way that is interesting enough for others to want to remember them.
DeleteHmmm.. There's a good chance I think too much.
Definitely a story to remember and descriptions that make it live and breathe. The blackberries are wonderful here, and the line-up that includes the Belgian stars...visual, delicate, and lingering on the mental palate. I often think animals have the best of it, unaware of mortality until it happens, and certainly not thinking about anything but their current skin, yet one has to admit gratitude for all the things those before us have left behind, and return the favor when one can.
ReplyDeleteFunny you mention animals. I was talking with a friend about this topic yesterday. I think animals are much more aware than we think; I'm convinced our 16 year old family dog knew she was dying before we did (or before we were willing to accept it). I wished I could be in her brain more than once, just to pluck *her* stories, which must have been more complex than I believed at the time.
ReplyDeleteGratitude though--I completely agree. It's my obsession these days.
wow, yes, how beautiful. as for me, my language is okay but my memory is shot. i gotta write that shit down or it's gone, poof!
ReplyDelete