"archivist" poems - Hello Poetry

~for r a/k/a rrr a/k/a woody~ “I will always remember you” raise you hand if honesty yet lives inside your muscle memory of brain, of heart, there is no one here who hasn’t uttered them fool lying words with difficulty we struggle to up raise faces and places, moments and images no longer mirrored within the frontmost places of our recollection, that searing then, itself scorched, lichen+moss covered, our greatest pains, pleasures sworn allegiances to these razored inflection points, now scoured by rusty hazes, and we wonder what has become of us, what we valued so to savor as forever memories, their names gray lady shrouded, and there is no internet site to aid in self-recovery, for our selfish selves have been altered, time, new loves, guilt and other stuff intersect with mind’s eyes and no mas- more synapses paths instant linkages I know you will vociferously argue but it is almost physical, our shame at losing them and ourselves, in the morass that time digs daily deeper for what grieves us is that losing as the end rushes to close our story, makes us pick up pen and finger scratch as best we can inside the lines on our faces that are/had proofs, witnesses, that once, we were there at the places, whose names are no longer mapped any where, so deep, no archivist’s submersible dare fathom those fathom’s darkest we would need to explore without the possibility that we might implode if we sunk so far to rip apart sea forests we knowingly, secret-planted to coverup her memory, the words spoken, the oaths and promises, we swore, for instance, simply by saying, “I will always remember you” p.s. and my self-shaming so great, that my asking for forgiveness is buried so fast, it may, not ever been real, just another fiction Jul 6th, 8:36 AM,

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Jul 7, 2023

Jul 7, 2023 at 6:42 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

“I will always remember you”

~for r a/k/a rrr a/k/a woody~ “I will always remember you” raise you hand if honesty yet lives inside your muscle memory of brain, of heart, there is no one here who hasn’t uttered them fool lying words with difficulty we struggle to up raise faces and places, moments and images no longer mirrored within the frontmost places of our recollection, that searing then, itself scorched, lichen+moss covered, our greatest pains, pleasures sworn allegiances to these razored inflection points, now scoured by rusty hazes, and we wonder what has become of us, what we valued so to savor as forever memories, their names gray lady shrouded, and there is no internet site to aid in self-recovery, for our selfish selves have been altered, time, new loves, guilt and other stuff intersect with mind’s eyes and no mas- more synapses paths instant linkages I know you will vociferously argue but it is almost physical, our shame at losing them and ourselves, in the morass that time digs daily deeper for what grieves us is that losing as the end rushes to close our story, makes us pick up pen and finger scratch as best we can inside the lines on our faces that are/had proofs, witnesses, that once, we were there at the places, whose names are no longer mapped any where, so deep, no archivist’s submersible dare fathom those fathom’s darkest we would need to explore without the possibility that we might implode if we sunk so far to rip apart sea forests we knowingly, secret-planted to coverup her memory, the words spoken, the oaths and promises, we swore, for instance, simply by saying, “I will always remember you” p.s. and my self-shaming so great, that my asking for forgiveness is buried so fast, it may, not ever been real, just another fiction Jul 6th, 8:36 AM,

47

In her previous life, my mother must have been an architect. She brought to each family occasion her vision, her love of precision, her stability - ensuring the family structure was sustainable and capable of longer-term development - and we still bear her signature style. In her previous life, I’m sure my mother was a portrait painter - able to take a fresh canvas, such as mine and my sisters’, and add layer upon layer of colour, of texture, to portray what she saw we would become – each proudly bearing her inscription. In her previous life, I expect my mother was a pioneer – not of paths yet travelled, but of more frequented avenues, boldly exploring the details and intersections between friends and neighbours helping us rediscover what we had in common - each fresh bond bearing her seal. In this life, my mother was an endurance athlete, a gifted healer, a 5-star chef, a respected teacher, a talented mediator, a wise counsellor, an innovative financier, a diligent archivist, and our chief story-teller. In this life, she was my mother.

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Jun 19, 2022

Jun 19, 2022 at 3:02 PM UTC

stevejeff

My mother must have been [after Cynthia Miller's 'Dropka']

In her previous life, my mother must have been an architect. She brought to each family occasion her vision, her love of precision, her stability - ensuring the family structure was sustainable and capable of longer-term development - and we still bear her signature style. In her previous life, I’m sure my mother was a portrait painter - able to take a fresh canvas, such as mine and my sisters’, and add layer upon layer of colour, of texture, to portray what she saw we would become – each proudly bearing her inscription. In her previous life, I expect my mother was a pioneer – not of paths yet travelled, but of more frequented avenues, boldly exploring the details and intersections between friends and neighbours helping us rediscover what we had in common - each fresh bond bearing her seal. In this life, my mother was an endurance athlete, a gifted healer, a 5-star chef, a respected teacher, a talented mediator, a wise counsellor, an innovative financier, a diligent archivist, and our chief story-teller. In this life, she was my mother.

29

I am partial to a shifting psyche I am hard to find when I give up my act I find the long way back I am a lighthouse when the wind blows south I am open mouth when I go off the track here’s to the long way back Parallels with my insides Luminol on my black tie Lucid all til the white lie I’ll buy anything you say Archivist of the meeting Red of wrist and of feeling I exist just to see it Seems to be all that I crave

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Mar 23, 2020

Mar 23, 2020 at 5:28 AM UTC

insearchofgatherings

Archivist

I am partial to a shifting psyche I am hard to find when I give up my act I find the long way back I am a lighthouse when the wind blows south I am open mouth when I go off the track here’s to the long way back Parallels with my insides Luminol on my black tie Lucid all til the white lie I’ll buy anything you say Archivist of the meeting Red of wrist and of feeling I exist just to see it Seems to be all that I crave

14

Your mind is an archivist's wet dream, I'd like to spend an indefinite amount of time there and observe the inner workings like a astrologist, seeing your constellations of thought... it also doesn't hurt that your stubbled jawline seems to speak volumes, and I wonder if it's chiseled proportions would mind me using them as braille. I'd like to know the caverns of your mouth more intimately-- please whisper prose on my collarbones... and I don't believe in love at first sight, but maybe, love at first poem.

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Nov 15, 2014

Nov 15, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC

darling-iridescence

sext:

Your mind is an archivist's wet dream, I'd like to spend an indefinite amount of time there and observe the inner workings like a astrologist, seeing your constellations of thought... it also doesn't hurt that your stubbled jawline seems to speak volumes, and I wonder if it's chiseled proportions would mind me using them as braille. I'd like to know the caverns of your mouth more intimately-- please whisper prose on my collarbones... and I don't believe in love at first sight, but maybe, love at first poem.

11

In the beginning, we bartered hearts like merchants at a bazaar, each of us donning silver smiles and guarded eyes, holding a currency of whispers and half-truths, our souls up for auction, a tangled web of worth. I've always been a collector of broken things, an archivist of fractured dreams, a believer in the beauty of the mended, but this time, I am the jagged porcelain, cradled in your hands, asking to be whole. You wove love into me like a tapestry, threaded through my aching seams, you took my tattered edges, stitched them tenderly, and I could almost believe I am deserving, though I wear this love like borrowed garments, a thrift store treasure, waiting to be claimed. Oh, how we danced in the shadows of our doubts, with the moon as our witness, we pirouetted, brushed fingertips like shooting stars, my heart a hummingbird, in the cage of my chest. I have held shame like a secret lover, nestled in the crook of my neck, a serpent's breath, it whispered in my ear, "you're not enough, you're a counterfeit soul, a fool's gold, a price too steep, a debt too deep." I've chased oblivion, doused in liquid fire, a self-destructive waltz, a frenzied masquerade, but you, you held me close, a lighthouse in the storm, your love, a compass guiding me to shores unseen. Together, we excavated the depths of my despair, traveled through the catacombs of my heart, our love a language, a dialect of healing, a lexicon of scars and whispered apologies. I have been a doubter, a skeptic of my worth, but you taught me to seek the gold within my veins, to peel back the layers of rust and fear, to find the precious, the hidden, the unseen. And now, we stand at the edge of a precipice, our love a fragile bridge, swaying in the breeze, I tremble, unsure, a hesitant traveler, but you, you hold my hand, and together, we leap. In this uncharted landscape, we forge our destiny, a mosaic of laughter and tears, a tapestry of dreams, our love, a currency worth more than silver or gold, for we are the treasure, the priceless, the untold.

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Apr 8, 2023

Apr 8, 2023 at 11:15 PM UTC

henk-holveck

Treasures of the Tangled Heart

In the beginning, we bartered hearts like merchants at a bazaar, each of us donning silver smiles and guarded eyes, holding a currency of whispers and half-truths, our souls up for auction, a tangled web of worth. I've always been a collector of broken things, an archivist of fractured dreams, a believer in the beauty of the mended, but this time, I am the jagged porcelain, cradled in your hands, asking to be whole. You wove love into me like a tapestry, threaded through my aching seams, you took my tattered edges, stitched them tenderly, and I could almost believe I am deserving, though I wear this love like borrowed garments, a thrift store treasure, waiting to be claimed. Oh, how we danced in the shadows of our doubts, with the moon as our witness, we pirouetted, brushed fingertips like shooting stars, my heart a hummingbird, in the cage of my chest. I have held shame like a secret lover, nestled in the crook of my neck, a serpent's breath, it whispered in my ear, "you're not enough, you're a counterfeit soul, a fool's gold, a price too steep, a debt too deep." I've chased oblivion, doused in liquid fire, a self-destructive waltz, a frenzied masquerade, but you, you held me close, a lighthouse in the storm, your love, a compass guiding me to shores unseen. Together, we excavated the depths of my despair, traveled through the catacombs of my heart, our love a language, a dialect of healing, a lexicon of scars and whispered apologies. I have been a doubter, a skeptic of my worth, but you taught me to seek the gold within my veins, to peel back the layers of rust and fear, to find the precious, the hidden, the unseen. And now, we stand at the edge of a precipice, our love a fragile bridge, swaying in the breeze, I tremble, unsure, a hesitant traveler, but you, you hold my hand, and together, we leap. In this uncharted landscape, we forge our destiny, a mosaic of laughter and tears, a tapestry of dreams, our love, a currency worth more than silver or gold, for we are the treasure, the priceless, the untold.

44

I keep a library small but not tiny nearly filled to the brim a million words within I keep watch over them a lonely archivist whose sin: reading dusty texts whilst yearning even with them burning my skin

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Dec 6, 2017

Dec 6, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC

LadyWallflower

Library

I keep a library small but not tiny nearly filled to the brim a million words within I keep watch over them a lonely archivist whose sin: reading dusty texts whilst yearning even with them burning my skin

9

The Archivist are not people you could easily see, They glide through the Grass like snakes, slowly and stealthily, They trade with others secretly. When the Sun goes crooked, And all is still, The Archivists come out and cross the Hill. The Archivist walks past me and slips a piece of paper in my hand, I slowly wait, then open the piece of contraband. It is too high a price to pay for Thy own loss. I hold it against my chest and breathe in the smell, The scent of the sand and the rocks, I breathe, It came from the Hill and my Lover's own hand. The Sun goes straight and Night turns into Day, I look at the Paper again and smile at the words before me, These are the Archivists who's trading comes with a fee.

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Dec 16, 2013

Dec 16, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC

diamonddust

The Archivists

The Archivist are not people you could easily see, They glide through the Grass like snakes, slowly and stealthily, They trade with others secretly. When the Sun goes crooked, And all is still, The Archivists come out and cross the Hill. The Archivist walks past me and slips a piece of paper in my hand, I slowly wait, then open the piece of contraband. It is too high a price to pay for Thy own loss. I hold it against my chest and breathe in the smell, The scent of the sand and the rocks, I breathe, It came from the Hill and my Lover's own hand. The Sun goes straight and Night turns into Day, I look at the Paper again and smile at the words before me, These are the Archivists who's trading comes with a fee.

15

dear line break, sleep is a hoax. the color of my skin represents the time I’ve been given to meditate on my blackness. in retrospect, we belong on earth. the son of an archivist and the son of a librarian meet in a shop where both step in to resolve an argument over a nesting doll before pursuing separately the same arsonist. all angels want to be the angel known as the man who smuggled into heaven the sacred text. I write nothing my tutor can’t read.

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Feb 17, 2014

Feb 17, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC

barton-d-smock

before picture

dear line break, sleep is a hoax. the color of my skin represents the time I’ve been given to meditate on my blackness. in retrospect, we belong on earth. the son of an archivist and the son of a librarian meet in a shop where both step in to resolve an argument over a nesting doll before pursuing separately the same arsonist. all angels want to be the angel known as the man who smuggled into heaven the sacred text. I write nothing my tutor can’t read.

30

Archivist's notes: This should be read in the ancient style: aloud, with lights and displays depowered. Permission has been granted for the lighting of candles (see oxygen rationing exemptions). Dedicated to the search for New Earth. ~~ I dreamed of you yesterday, and I awoke to tears of joy. Though you are not yet born, and we shall never meet, I know I must send this to you. I have a name, and I am young. In this regard, we are similar. I write to you mostly because you cannot write to me. I have questions for you, but I lived many centuries ago. So I must do my best to think what you might want to ask me and try to reply. Here, the ceiling, everything, is filled with openness. It would probably be quite scary were I not used to it. I wonder what is like where you are, and if you are afraid. Large hardened plants tower over me, ten times my height or more. I run fingers along their sides. They watch over us. I suppose things must be very different there. The place where I live is complicated to explain; there are many people living here. I feel that perhaps you might like it, as I do. Oxygen is abundant where I live; you breathe and there it is. Not just here, but everywhere. Some people complain that the air here is not great. I do not mind. Do you know what animals are? I suspect that you do, though I worry that there may not be many there. That makes me feel sad. There are many animals here, countless wonderful creatures. I like to look at them. They feel alive and free and full of hope. I am not sure if I imagine they feel that way, or if they imagine I do. Anyway, I think we feel the same. I have a secret to tell you. In my dream, I saw where it is you are. That is why it I thought it might be scary. It was a metal tube, way up in the endless blackness. Though I know you are not there yet, I did try looking for you. Standing out in the green, I looked up. but you were not there. The small feathered ones sang. I know you are there, regardless. I think of you as a friend, and I hope, I hope you find what it is you seek. I hope you are with a friend. Friendship and hope will surely not be eroded by the countless ages. I know I will never have answers to my questions, but there is contentment in the asking. I do not know what will become of me, but I think of you, and I am glad that I may be remembered by a friend.

0

Sep 27, 2016

Sep 27, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC

paodje

Of Gaia

Archivist's notes: This should be read in the ancient style: aloud, with lights and displays depowered. Permission has been granted for the lighting of candles (see oxygen rationing exemptions). Dedicated to the search for New Earth. ~~ I dreamed of you yesterday, and I awoke to tears of joy. Though you are not yet born, and we shall never meet, I know I must send this to you. I have a name, and I am young. In this regard, we are similar. I write to you mostly because you cannot write to me. I have questions for you, but I lived many centuries ago. So I must do my best to think what you might want to ask me and try to reply. Here, the ceiling, everything, is filled with openness. It would probably be quite scary were I not used to it. I wonder what is like where you are, and if you are afraid. Large hardened plants tower over me, ten times my height or more. I run fingers along their sides. They watch over us. I suppose things must be very different there. The place where I live is complicated to explain; there are many people living here. I feel that perhaps you might like it, as I do. Oxygen is abundant where I live; you breathe and there it is. Not just here, but everywhere. Some people complain that the air here is not great. I do not mind. Do you know what animals are? I suspect that you do, though I worry that there may not be many there. That makes me feel sad. There are many animals here, countless wonderful creatures. I like to look at them. They feel alive and free and full of hope. I am not sure if I imagine they feel that way, or if they imagine I do. Anyway, I think we feel the same. I have a secret to tell you. In my dream, I saw where it is you are. That is why it I thought it might be scary. It was a metal tube, way up in the endless blackness. Though I know you are not there yet, I did try looking for you. Standing out in the green, I looked up. but you were not there. The small feathered ones sang. I know you are there, regardless. I think of you as a friend, and I hope, I hope you find what it is you seek. I hope you are with a friend. Friendship and hope will surely not be eroded by the countless ages. I know I will never have answers to my questions, but there is contentment in the asking. I do not know what will become of me, but I think of you, and I am glad that I may be remembered by a friend.

10

Just one of the misfits The mystics The mythic Enthusiasts scripting My own hieroglyphic Codex to keep written Recordings Just jot A few thoughts Down each day To see how they all look Rearranged on the page And that even I can't Comprehend of this message Perhaps in the future Invaluable lesson Is gleamed From what seems To be power mad schemes But this world I will leave Having not conquered even A parcel of land For I already hold The whole world in my hand

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Apr 13, 2019

Apr 13, 2019 at 10:48 AM UTC

michael-marchese

The Archivist

Just one of the misfits The mystics The mythic Enthusiasts scripting My own hieroglyphic Codex to keep written Recordings Just jot A few thoughts Down each day To see how they all look Rearranged on the page And that even I can't Comprehend of this message Perhaps in the future Invaluable lesson Is gleamed From what seems To be power mad schemes But this world I will leave Having not conquered even A parcel of land For I already hold The whole world in my hand

24

My blank mouth, Mummering half-words and compressed sentences, Triggering his hate, All a misunderstanding really His patience convulsing These things can be a trigger to less enviable states, Is it drastic that I want to end? A forest floor and some last restful thoughts, Body layen out like tinned goods, Some kind of logic to do with presentability, My organs works of macabre art not yet returned to the earth, Birds sorting through my body like archivist from gods,

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Mar 15, 2020

Mar 15, 2020 at 8:15 AM UTC

wa-west

Blank Mouth

My blank mouth, Mummering half-words and compressed sentences, Triggering his hate, All a misunderstanding really His patience convulsing These things can be a trigger to less enviable states, Is it drastic that I want to end? A forest floor and some last restful thoughts, Body layen out like tinned goods, Some kind of logic to do with presentability, My organs works of macabre art not yet returned to the earth, Birds sorting through my body like archivist from gods,

12

i've kept every sticky note, letter, mindless, simple gift ever given to me by a friend. every memory, from valentine's day cards to ticket stubs. i'm a hoarder, but of a very specific breed: a scrapbook's worth of paper with no home and no purpose. more akin to an archivist for no one. i started crying yesterday because i couldn't find my memory box, the shoebox i've stuffed all of my sentimental nothing into. i still can't find it. i'm afraid someone threw it away. (the box is full of letters and notes from my friends, starting from 8th grade. i go off to college in a week.) but if that someone saw it as trash, they were probably right. i have old letters from people i haven't talked to in years, that hate me now, all crammed in this little shoebox because i could never bring myself to throw them away. my own personal museum of all the relationships i've let die of starvation, hung taxidermic and pointless within the walls of my heart and cluttering the floors of my room. exhibit a: when i broke up with my first girlfriend, i opened my memory box and burned the letters she'd given me. but, i went through them first so i could keep the ones i couldn't bear to get rid of. i'm a hoarder. i latch onto every crumb of affection i've ever been given and never throw it away. wouldn't you? exhibit b: i was an angry child i am an angry adult i have spent my life roaming the desert of a lonely god, and finding people willing to love me is a long and empty walk from one oasis to another, with nothing to show for it but a shrine made up of immortal-dead remnants of every person i've ever known. i have been alone before and i never know if i'll be alone again. experience hath granted me the wisdom to hold onto, dig my claws into what is not guaranteed. so yes, i am a hoarder, and, exhibit c: one day i will die alone surrounded by garbage and words that some person out in the world doesn't even remember writing, and i won't be able to bring it with me into the black abyss of wherever else and they will clean out my house after i am dead and throw it all away. but for now i'll keep looking for my memory box, because it's gotta be around here somewhere. i really do hope it's around here somewhere.

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Jul 24, 2020

Jul 24, 2020 at 2:04 AM UTC

dorian-green

memory box

i've kept every sticky note, letter, mindless, simple gift ever given to me by a friend. every memory, from valentine's day cards to ticket stubs. i'm a hoarder, but of a very specific breed: a scrapbook's worth of paper with no home and no purpose. more akin to an archivist for no one. i started crying yesterday because i couldn't find my memory box, the shoebox i've stuffed all of my sentimental nothing into. i still can't find it. i'm afraid someone threw it away. (the box is full of letters and notes from my friends, starting from 8th grade. i go off to college in a week.) but if that someone saw it as trash, they were probably right. i have old letters from people i haven't talked to in years, that hate me now, all crammed in this little shoebox because i could never bring myself to throw them away. my own personal museum of all the relationships i've let die of starvation, hung taxidermic and pointless within the walls of my heart and cluttering the floors of my room. exhibit a: when i broke up with my first girlfriend, i opened my memory box and burned the letters she'd given me. but, i went through them first so i could keep the ones i couldn't bear to get rid of. i'm a hoarder. i latch onto every crumb of affection i've ever been given and never throw it away. wouldn't you? exhibit b: i was an angry child i am an angry adult i have spent my life roaming the desert of a lonely god, and finding people willing to love me is a long and empty walk from one oasis to another, with nothing to show for it but a shrine made up of immortal-dead remnants of every person i've ever known. i have been alone before and i never know if i'll be alone again. experience hath granted me the wisdom to hold onto, dig my claws into what is not guaranteed. so yes, i am a hoarder, and, exhibit c: one day i will die alone surrounded by garbage and words that some person out in the world doesn't even remember writing, and i won't be able to bring it with me into the black abyss of wherever else and they will clean out my house after i am dead and throw it all away. but for now i'll keep looking for my memory box, because it's gotta be around here somewhere. i really do hope it's around here somewhere.

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