by T.P. Bird (December 2024)
The Loneliness of Memory
–
A poem that comes up out of the darkest,
saddest waters will be a fleeting thing,
a halo of prisms, the undoing,
the desolation of weight. —Kay Ryan
–
It is hard to recount how many times we all
went together, body and soul, into
–
the then and there of our yesterdays—
a place we seemed to live without mindfulness.
—
Now, at present, though often blessed to
remember who, when and where—I find
–
I’m cursed to go there alone, and return feeling
lonely. The ghosts I leave behind remain in stasis,
–
never knowing I was there prowling in the dust,
nor following me out through the fog of time.
–
———————⸙
–
Yes, I can easily go back nearly sixty years
to the porch where I drank instant ice-tea
–
while reading a paperback on early Dylan.
Biff, our old orange tabby, breathes
–
through his mouth in mid-summer’s heat.
My younger brother washes the dog.
–
However, there is a dark side to this memory:
the old cat is gone and my brother is
–
no longer washing the dog—the dog
is gone—both animals dying in ripe old age.
–
My brother is now, on occasion, a voice on the
phone; in our separate memories we never meet.
–
———————⸙
–
And yes, I can easily go back to a night of foolish
anger at friends in a crowded bar in old New York—
–
the summer of ‘74 turning over in my head
like a sleepless man. But no, I can’t really
–
go back and try to lighten my heavy mood;
we are not really there. Our ghosts are just like
–
empty paper cups—waltzing in the middle of
a city street in a never ending breeze—yet,
–
all staying put where and when I later raged
against that terrible music playing in my head,
–
the darkness of my mind—a dire demon exposed,
a terror now to my restless after-thoughts.
–
———————⸙
–
These memories are like watching old movies on
cable TV; I’m always watching alone—never
–
in the bacchanalia of a night spent with those
meant to become old friends. No. I’m alone
–
in old memories. The old world remains the same—
despite my weary efforts to make it all okay.
–
–
–
Answers to Questions Never Asked
–
The insecurity of man’s life goes to the root
of his being, to his position in creation . . .
In a word, anxiety is descriptive of man’s
radical freedom, the source of both man’s
creativity and destructiveness, the locus of
both his dignity and his misery. —Gordon Harland
–
I.
The history of our time is not complete;
the days left to us grow short, but are fat
with apprehension and expectancy.
The remaining tomorrows may hold questions
———————we cannot answer just yet.
So … go to bed fully clothed, ready to rise
and act at a moment’s notice.
–
———————⸙
–
It should be noted … while some people
cry in alarm over evils they imagine to be true,
they don’t notice real dangers like poisonous
snakes waiting in the thrown-aside woodpile
of history—ready to strike and destroy.
–
Learn to take serpents and woodpiles seriously.
–
———————⸙
–
While fear mongers and the cavalier wrestle like
children for the right to be king of the hill…
–
choose now—wisely if you can—who best to ignore.
–
———————⸙
–
Things of great importance is a relative term,
not recognizable until the truly insignificant and
meaningless have left the room, and one is left
quite alone with the profound. It’s anybody’s guess
how one will respond.
–
———————⸙
–
When your eyes are full of bad weather,
you might not have those veritable blossoms
of beautiful dreams, but see only the dark side
of the psyche.
–
If so, ask yourself at such a time—
how many people of sound mind did Freud drive mad
with suppositions beyond anyone’s natural inclination?
–
II.
When tall trees leave long shadows stirring
in a robust wind across a summer lawn—
———————close your eyes.
Behind your lids you will view a totally
red hour in which smoke-like shadows
bounce in the currents of the blown-about,
early evening air. Once here . . .
–
let the territory of the heart become calm, these
shadows of the aging day covering your wounds.
Sit quietly in this welcoming solitude,
———————and wait for any healing to begin.
–
———————⸙
–
When trees of differing genus grow together
in the same time and space—their leaves rubbing
one another—there is no heated clash, no animosity
between them, no shouting out in anger as each
strives towards the light.
–
Spend some time with trees and learn from them.
–
———————⸙
–
After pushing your way through a thick undergrowth
of briers and sapling maples, you arrive at a small stream
slowly winding its way down through a dark woods.
The stream is gullied quite deep—indicating many years
of watery transport. This is not a staying place, not a knowing
place. Heavy foreboding and noisy crows rebuke your presence.
–
Find a hilltop where your thoughts will be higher and all your own.
–
———————⸙
–
Go out into a certain field and look at the old gnarled maple.
It must be over a hundred years old. It’s like a buoy
———————in a vast green sea of grass.
–
Perhaps it will remind you of an elder statesman standing
with dignity against the torrents of time and elements
that can destroy both vitality and veneration.
One day it won’t be there.
–
Consider this a symbol of the inevitable.
–
- -
While Under the Linden Tree
–
Contemplation is the sudden intuitive penetration
of what really IS. It is the unexpected leap of the
spirit of man into the existential luminosity of
Reality Itself. —Thomas Merton
–
Most mornings, I take my dog for a walk.
It is not a far walk—we cross a wooden bridge
that straddles the small creek that runs through the
–
land where I live—only to return after the hound
has rambled through, rolled in, and sniffed the high
green grass of an open field. I then climb a slight
–
rise to an area—where I sit under a wonderfully
spreading linden tree. The dog wanders off to put
her nose in woodchuck holes, and other interesting
–
places only a dog could find. It is a quiet life we live.
Yet, here, while under the shade of the linden, and
under the influence of nature’s surrounding beauty—
–
I begin to ponder with my limited human intellect,
the idea of simply, being. In the midst of my reverie,
I had to ask—how can a mere man truly speak of
–
beauty, let alone the mystery of the ineffible in mere
words, sentences—even in the lines of a poem? But
then, noticing the linden’s rich, listening leaves astir
–
in a slight breeze above my head, I imagined the tree
wanted to cover my undefined thoughts with its
own simple knowing. Sitting in silence, I felt the urge
–
to look up through the tree’s multiple trunks and
limbs, conjoined with heart-shaped leaves—
to find small windows left open to the sky above.
–
Are the answers there, I asked the linden tree?
The tree seemed to reply, yet I knew the contents
came from elsewhere; perhaps from Being itself.
–
Not particularly in the sky. The answers you seek
are all around you. Creation has many names,
just as you have been given a name—it is Man.
–
And, as your name was given you, oh Man—
you gave this tree its name. What you call Mystery
is not nameless, but is called Truth, and it can be
–
known—yet, not as a tree knows, and lives by it.
Because of the name given you, oh Man
you can know it and live its beauty to the fullest.
–
–
–
Older Men Sitting at a Table, Talking
–
Usually in a diner, a cafe, even a fast food place.
At the arrival of three, four, possibly five, the banter
begins without introduction or real substance—words
–
seldom rehearsed, replies without real mentation. Meal
orders made—coffee is delivered, or soda self-served
from a machine. Each man begins to warm to possible
–
conversations—ready to search through a tangle of
current events, anecdotes, and personal concerns.
Jokes are attempted—just to stir things up a bit.
–
Seldom do they speak of what they left behind at home,
or someplace earlier inhabited before gathering together
in this commonplace setting. It being a world apart—
–
each man must decide what he will share of his other,
private world. These older men might sit at a table in a
near empty space, or one filled with other groupings
–
living in their own separate, private worlds within this
cosmos of public discourse. Like the world outside this
scene—a cloistered world is not perfect. Sometimes,
–
the piped-in music is too loud; sudden sharp laughter
and chatter of others presents itself; sometimes it’s the
workers behind the counter. The drama done, the men
–
smile knowingly at each other, and quickly leave it behind—
much like when they finally left behind their youth
with all its energy, sense of importance, and male bravado.
–
These gatherings may be a time of small talk—casual
concerns of life—everyday maintenance lived out in both
body and soul—a fix of this, an adjustment of that.
–
Perhaps they speak of decisions long delayed, an action
never attempted. What they possibly seek from each other
is a subtle approval, or a delicate approbation; it doesn’t
–
really matter which one. As to the world outside this setting,
these men believe their observations are simply an attempt
to find the humor in the oftentimes absurd and sad affairs
–
of human existence. Other times they will weigh-in on
more intellectual subjects like politics, religion, or the yet
unrevealed or lost philosophical aspects of everyday life.
–
Some may have studied for years among ivory towers,
while others—not so; Yet, it doesn’t matter. Each man
sees his opinion on a subject as sacred ground. Yet, it’s also
–
understood their ideas may be like old, empty buildings—
meant for condemning, tearing down, and then paved over
with real or assumed facts by either shear brilliance,
–
grand strategy, or bold bluffing. The competitive nature of
most men only fades a bit with age and experience. But all
know it’s just friendly jousting between retired knights—
–
whose table does not necessary need to be round.
–
–
=-
A Scene from the World As We Know It
–
After a daybreak cup of coffee,
the morning came alive as agitated
–
blackbirds flew to and fro in a roiling ball
among sun-filled, late spring yellow birches.
–
Before long a small, young hawk—
possibly a sharp shinned—landed,
–
the birch’s branch barely feeling its avian weight.
And here the bird of prey settled in, its body still,
–
its head darting ninety degrees left and right,
forty-five up and down—alert among the nervous
–
chitterings, chirping and motility of the local fowl.
Then, single blackbirds began to dive through
–
the birch’s spring growth at the brazen intruder
who ducked his head and covered his body with
–
spread wings—all followed by robins and sparrows,
in ones and twos, even threes, alighting in nearby
–
branches—each in turn harassing the immature
predator who invaded their neighborhood.
–
Retrieving my field glasses, I missed
the young hawk’s escape from this aligned and
–
provoked flock. No doubt both predator and prey
acted on the instinct of survival. Yet, I think
–
only one lot was outraged at the death of a blackbird,
that I later found lying in the calm, green grass—
–
———————missing its feathery black head.
T.P. Bird has published in a number of journals and is the author of a chapbook, as well as five full collections, the latest from Wipf and Stock, Upstate Trilogy. Bird is a retired Industrial designer and minister. He lives with his wife, Sally, in Lexington, KY.
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One Response
All enjoyable and quite readable. I especially liked, “The loneliness so memory” and the humor of this stanza from “Answers to Questions Never Asked” : “If so, ask yourself at such a time—
how many people of sound mind did Freud drive mad
with suppositions beyond anyone’s natural inclination?”