"embryos" poems - Hello Poetry

Poetry is sometimes easy like the wind rushing to where there is not much wind, caressing in waves, invisible and pliant like the air, as effortless as breathing it. Poetry is sometimes impossible, like turning the tumbler of a lock with your fingertip, like climbing a mountain barefoot in a blizzard of screaming, sliding sleet, like a tearing cry that dies into a whimper in your throat as you realize the futility of that which you do, the implacability of the beast you fight. Sometimes, there are no words that can describe the machinations and the subtle ticking of a clock that beats in time to the human soul. Not hearing the rhythm, you forget the music until your heart sings again and you dance free like a young ballerina cutting ballet. No poem is a picture that captures the fluttering, soaring and sinking in the heart’s chambers. You choose a word that fits, discard ten of its brothers, yet feel surprise when your sentences have no answers for the questions in your chest. You mourn every phrase you have lost as you fell asleep. Knowing not what you forgot, you move on to new questions. You cannot miss what you’ve never felt, but you can yearn for something you’ve forgotten. What is the difference to you if you cannot remember the difference? The embryos of the heart and mind are fragile. Your heart sings of a country it cannot see anymore now that your back is turned, you cast fishing nets behind you into the past blindly. You remember that you have forgotten, and you forget what bears remembering. You remember a day long past not as the day that passed but as the memory of its passing, yet feel surprise when years later and many forgettings hence, it happened to someone else altogether.

0

Jan 15, 2014

Jan 15, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC

robi-banerjee

Sehnsucht

Poetry is sometimes easy like the wind rushing to where there is not much wind, caressing in waves, invisible and pliant like the air, as effortless as breathing it. Poetry is sometimes impossible, like turning the tumbler of a lock with your fingertip, like climbing a mountain barefoot in a blizzard of screaming, sliding sleet, like a tearing cry that dies into a whimper in your throat as you realize the futility of that which you do, the implacability of the beast you fight. Sometimes, there are no words that can describe the machinations and the subtle ticking of a clock that beats in time to the human soul. Not hearing the rhythm, you forget the music until your heart sings again and you dance free like a young ballerina cutting ballet. No poem is a picture that captures the fluttering, soaring and sinking in the heart’s chambers. You choose a word that fits, discard ten of its brothers, yet feel surprise when your sentences have no answers for the questions in your chest. You mourn every phrase you have lost as you fell asleep. Knowing not what you forgot, you move on to new questions. You cannot miss what you’ve never felt, but you can yearn for something you’ve forgotten. What is the difference to you if you cannot remember the difference? The embryos of the heart and mind are fragile. Your heart sings of a country it cannot see anymore now that your back is turned, you cast fishing nets behind you into the past blindly. You remember that you have forgotten, and you forget what bears remembering. You remember a day long past not as the day that passed but as the memory of its passing, yet feel surprise when years later and many forgettings hence, it happened to someone else altogether.