― David Levithan
My own mother, Theresa Sterne, died at my birth―I never knew her.
But here I was, flooded with childhood recollections of my mother but from a previous life.
Until the moment I saw Madeleine Thickett's portrait, it never occurred to me that in channeling Paul Thickett's past I would inevitably revive memories of his mother, previously mine, and end up grieving a ghost.
So, I sat on the concrete floor of my basement as a parade of images of Madeleine flowed through my mind.
There were mundane memories of her peeling apples while we talked at a kitchen table, or her taking me on a streetcar to a dentist appointment and consoling me afterwards by buying me a candy bar at a corner store.
She was beautiful and kind with a soft voice that reminded me of Clare's and why that made me weep, I have no idea, but I sat there for most of the afternoon as if viewing home movies of a world long gone
Because of my head trauma, I had lost connection with so much of my past and now ironically, was recalling images from another life.
Usually photographs and memories are tinged with a wistful nostalgia but my recollections seemed darker and bitterly ironic because of futility.
What could I do with these flashbacks and reminiscences, useless as fall rain after all the flowers had died?
And then the thought made me grieve again the loss of a mother I never had.
I fished my cell from my pocket and saw it was after four.
Soon I'd have to meet with Nat and Clare and how could I begin to tell them what had occurred?
No wonder the ancient Romans believed the souls of the dead drank from Lethe, the river of forgetfulness. How else could a pagan Elysian Fields be tolerable otherwise?
But I had to deal with death in the land of the living taunted by glimpses of a history that for me was tantamount to a life unlived.
I resolved not to share my experience with Nat and Clare, at least, not yet.
First I had to feel it and live with it before I could communicate what it meant.
Besides, I also had to warn them about the extent of the imminent threat facing all of us and what measures they should take to defend themselves.
My angst about the past could wait to be revealed and discussed on another day.
I just realised - I haven't seen you post any poems for a long while.
Do you still write them?
Hey Alex! Happy Thanksgiving, although it is in America, we celebrated ours last. month in Canada, regardless, we all need to be thankful at some point in the year. This is the highpoint of my response - it's all downhill from here ...just saying.
Yes, I was thinking about my poems today. I write them usually on my walks, first in my head and then later on paper. I still walk, I still think and feel, but I no longer post them on Hive because there seems to be a prejudice against rewarding poems as if they aren't significant unless they're epic length.
Personally, I think a work of art is perfect regardless of dimensions. I've posted some of my quotes on Steemit along with a painting or photo and often earned more than my stories. whatever...I'm jaded by the response and that's honestly why I don't post them.
I used to love posting them at night, just after 9 or 10 pm EST - poetry like wine is best enjoyed in candlelight or the quiet of night. I used to love that hour of reflection. I was robbed of that - that's how it feels, and now I realize how bitter I feel.
Why did you have to ask that? - I had come to terms with disappointment and now you've disturbed the placid universe within me. I feel the same way now as I do when Trump is about to speak - incredibly nauseous and revulsed. So what do I really think? LOL!! I think I'm always the victim - that's why my heroes are conflicted. Damn! I'm going to bed now...thanks for asking?! :)
lol...if you can...melt a tobleron in your mouth and you will forget your woes.
In this world of now, I find it amusing that we can be friends and talk, when our political viewpoints are so diametrically opposed. The funny thing is, even black africans tell me they are praying for Trump to win, or else we lose everything as the globalists take over and we no longer even own ourselves: our bodies, our children, the history of our family and so on.
But, this is how it has been most of my life and it was the purpose of studying how to debate. A pity that has been lost among the younger generations
Your poems are not lost. As time goes, you also grow (not just older) and your poems will reflect the changes in you.
Hey Alex, you're right, my friend. Give me peace :)
I'm not surprised we differ. My best friend was a life long anarchist and pagan, to the point of being an iconoclast. He used to call me a poet-priest long before Cohen tried to co-opt the term - Mind you his surname indicates he was from the priestly caste...anyway
I have written poems since I was seventeen for a small circle of friends and oftentimes for an audience of one so I'm not dismayed by an ill-informed response so much as by some people's attitude. You know people don't get art as much as they do celebrity and it's that way all over now. Taylor Swift complains about her songs being hijacked and most authors can't be traditionally published unless they're known - how about the irony of that? My optometrist thinks I'm famous because she Googled me on line, lol - I told her that was relative. I can recall a time when I had no footprint so that's irrelevant. What bugs me is the same thing that caused people I brought to Steemit to leave the site - Hive is the same deal. These were writers successful in their own right - one who won Emmys for his screen writing, who couldn't believe the lack of recognition of art and the rewarding of tripe.I think this latter part causes many to get discouraged on these sites.
But you're right - that's simply a mote to trouble the mind's eye. I ignore crazy drivers on highway (mostly) and can laugh about them. This is another car on the road. Thanks for the encouragement, my friend.