She made her sit on a bench by the jamb of the fireplace, she cook'd food for her.
She had no work to give her, but she gave her remembrance and fondness.
~Walt Whitman
Lay your bundle by the door, let me drink
the shine of your hair, the curve of your brow,
the pockmark on your cheek.
Sit by my fire a while, rest your strong legs for the journey.
I will cook a meal of lamb and figs
and set a candle on the thick wood of my table,
tell you stories from the school, from the books we read.
Let me bathe you in fond memory.
Remember me in the days you don't return,
the weeks you don't return, the years you don't return.
Author notes
p. 202
Please tell me what works, and what doesn't, for you
Comments
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I loved the age to this...
the old history and dedication?
yeah dedication that is the word for me
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Did I write this? LOL
Thanks for stopping by; always a treat when the old stuff gets a read.
I've been reading very little around here lately, but I will! I will! I promise!
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I love the Whitman intro... Your words move down the page at the pace of a lover's lips on skin...
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with all this "lay" and "bundle" and "wood" i think i'm beginning to thicken. not to mention, "cheek" and "fig".
It's all terribly rustic, isn't it? Sounds like you are in a cabin, possibly with Frodo and his towering girlfriend. Now that would be a proper porn setup right there. *note to self*
It's sad too. The leaving always is and the gone are as good as dead. When I was young, I never knew how precious my memory would become to me.
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wow, what an ending.
prior to reading that, i found this to be a very scenic piece. however with that final line, i'm now just floored. this far exceeds my expectations.
i love the way you write, and am going to add you to my list of favorites now. you're truly very gifted, and i must read up on you more often.
will do, will do.
j -
this poem very much came through to me in a style that had such a timeless tone to it. the use of "pockmark" might be the only reference that aged it slightly for me - that is just what made it all the more unique and drew me in all the more.
it's amazing how you take the thoughts of your inspiring poem and bring us something so strong.
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"the pockmark on your cheek"
I read a comment below referencing this line. Now, this actually makes me picture a dimple, the effect of a quirky half-smile, I think the singular was intended. At least, that is how I read it.
This poem transports me to the kind of world that existed in countless fantasy novels I have read over the years...where everyone is on a journey to somewhere, from somewhere, eating stale bread and cheese but savoring such a simple meal as if it was the best thing they'd ever tasted. Where truth and love existed without question. This is a place that I would close the book and long for. The place magic happens.
Sometimes we just know when the end is upon us.
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I told you how I feel about Mr. Whitman, I'm ready for the next.
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J'avais au departir. (sic)
Evocative sentimentalist introductory quotation, by that floppy evocative sentimentalist his self given to him. And now to us. Hmm.
You are going to drink all these things? or drink 'in' or 'from'? No seeming structure, but there being an underlying reality, one wonders where it be; it is not of terrestrial human life as I know it, nor usually expressed. (2 poetic by 1/2, 1 mite say).
'Rest my strong (sic) legs for..' : so I am to be thrust forth into the storm, forced to revert back to the norm, as they say,?
This meal, the leg: is it a 'leg of lamb' by any chance? Am I to be the 'lion to your lamb'? Or (shivers!) the other way around??
I can hardly critique the form of the poem, so I critique the intension of effect: if I am to be drawn into the Web of your Poetic Spinnings, let it not be upon the Loom of your Wooly Weavings; especially if it is an electric loom - then I might really sing, the body electric!!
Really, I had little pre-existant inclination to allow you to bathe me in anything, let alone some ethereal substance. You make me feel dirty, ironically, like the swamp dragging on my heel.
But really, I must go now.
(*It works - but it is your feel thereof: it is simply too heavy handled for the sort of gracious ingratiation that Whitman endeavoured, and I take you here too do^, to effect. As you by now know, I think, and can amply justify, Whitman as a floppy sorta guy, with smatltz as a strong suit - like jolt cola, decaffinatted.)
^If the subject is leaving, surely it would do well not to be so selfish in the attentions one gives them? One might evoke not just their vanity (1st stanza), but also their reciprocation of affection. As it sits, it is a cloying, and thus annoying to all but the vainalist. IMnot-soHO...(*cautiously worried..) ( )
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When I figure out exactly what it is you've said, I'll probably agree on all counts. Feeling the need to explain myself, this is where this came from: I have set myself a little project (having been kinda dry in the poetry department lately), which is to open my newly-acquired copy of Milosz's The Book of Luminous Things (a wonderful anthology, if you're interested) at random and write a response poem to whatever I find on the page. God, the Whitman! What was I supposed to do with that? Whitman tells a story his mother told him of a Native woman visitor she remembered from her childhood. So I wrote from the mother-as-young-girl's perspective, or rather her persepective through Whitman's eyes, and stole ideas and phrases from Whitman, threw in some images of my own. No judgement - that's my only rule for myself.
Interesting that you picked up on the verbs, drink and bathe...and yeah, I think I used them badly. Good eyes, thank you! This piece will undoubtedly end up on the "bad poem" pile, with which I pay for the occasional decent poem that emerges.
Anyhow, you spent a lot of time here, and I really appreciate it. If by "cautiously worried" you mean about what my reaction might be, you can rest easy. When people hold up the mirror, as you've done, I begin to see myself. It's good.
Z
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Well we live cycles don't we- when our daughter visits, it is just so. We stare at the little details like to burn them on the memory until next time, days , months, years may pass till then, each time reaffirm everything in the familiar things.
This have a Japanesey feel in the language and in the resignation. There is also the pride of a task finished in 'strong legs' a kind of feel of transmission.
It is a comforting sort of poem. One that lives with itself comfortably.
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This one aims straight for the heart to me. Funny, the way we are content (or make ourselves content) for that one moment, that one night..whatever it is. It is easier than losing everything...and we can relish the old memories while we create a new one.
Beautimous, zara.
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my only niggler here is, that surely there wouldn't just be one pockmark?? there are usually alot... unless it is a scar..?? then, it would be a scar and not a pockmark.. as pockmarks tend to be multiples..? and that is me being silly and picky at 7am and having had no break in work and needing some friggin' sleep... lolololol
- hurrah
but i do love this... it reminds me of "old poetry" and life past long since.... i am turning into a midgit yoda... lololololol
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She had one, the only one she scratched, according to her mother. Get some sleep, you.
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