I have been thinking about the writing of death poems. How this practice can prepare one for the inevitable. I had intended to write a death poem on the forty-seventh anniversary of my birth (the beginning, I thought, of a new annual tradition) but I did not. Instead, I seem to have written a death of memory poem, something that I believe I must fear even more than death itself at this time in my life, though this is probably only because I have not come close enough to death while the death of memory is a thing that I have known closely for quite a long time. So here is my death of memory poem. Perhaps, by its writing, I will be made ready.
Let my poems be a hedge between my self and the loss of my memories, a palliative against or a salve for the wounds that I saw on my father’s face, that I now have seen on my own face, that same face when I look in the mirror.
My memory is gone. It is a broken thing beyond fixing that will just run down and down over time. But maybe these words, these poems will give me something that my father never had, something that he never knew how to find on his own, something that I do not know that I know how to find on my own and yet still I search and yearn for—a changing of the heart, a look in this mirror, a softening of the self (hard, hard thing that we make within us, our myriad actions and phenomena uncountable that we cling to, these never-ending evanescent folds in the cortex of time, these simple tricks we use to try to woo security to sit at the table with us, to say to us that we are we but not alone and yet somehow still solitary…).
Perhaps I can find this thing for both of us, my father and I, though he is long past finding and I find my self searching still.
Perhaps, if my memories must leave me (and it seems that they will) I can have them replaced with poems. If my memories are to be dislodged, if they are to fall to the wayside, I would rather have poems in their places than just more fears of losing more memories.
What is the self but a bag full of memories that we cannot put down? Though we are boarding a train to a place of no things and we stand ultimately alone on the platform and the bag is full of useless things and our arms are already full of all the things the world has given us that we did not want or need or ask for, still, we cannot put it down.
I want to be able to put it all down. When the time comes, I want to be able to board that train with empty hands. Let me board it with empty hands, alone.
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“What is the self but a bag full
of memories that we cannot
put down?”
– just so, just so
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Ah figgered you’d think (just) so.
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This most personal of poems speaks to all of us, reminds us why we are not here to be alone. If we go to the end alone let it be with the last thought that we were not alone on the journey. This poem, with its sadness still leaves me feeling lighter than before I read it. The final photograph is perfect.
I would trade all but one of my memories for poems. If I can ever find my voice again I will write about that.
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I had hoped that, though a somewhat sad subject, the overall tone would be positive.
I thank you Ron, and it seems you have found (but then again, lost again?) your voice again.
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A wonderful post on all fronts. Memory supplanted by poetry is a brilliant concept. —CC
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Thank you, Carlos.
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wonderful and poignant.
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Thank you Audra.
(Not sure how, but I missed replying to all comments on this post. Must have been a rough week…don’t remember. 😉 )
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Absolutely beautiful. And so moving. The images are mesmerizing too, and fit the poem so well.
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Thank you Deborah. I appreciate your words. And I appreciated them back in October, even if it did take me this long (for some strange reason) to respond.
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Oh my Johnny….I’m not losing my own memories as much as losing everything that might hold me to them. Is this different? I don’t know. But I flew like a bird reading this….. There are so many “little deaths”. The photo of your father is extraordinarily beautiful. I agree with Ron…I’m lighter for reading this….
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Thank you Jana.
I am trying to let go
even of the losing.
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Astounding. The “What is a self but…” stanza sums it up so brilliantly, I wish it could be broadcast world-wide. Also, the self as that “hard, hard thing…” is so clear. So I guess the memories are softening, and having seen what that did to your father, it terrifies. Groping for comfort, you find poetry. I worked with many people with Alzheimer’s and dementia (or am I taking you too literally?) and the variety of responses and journeys is infinite, it seems. One woman retained her wacky, creative spirit even while her brain was disintegrating. Just having a strong creative background, may help navigate those waters. Thanks for this poem. Arrow-straight and deep.
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Not too literally at all. This was precisely the case. It was not an easy journey for him. He was a rather austere man. A child of the depression and a veteran of two wars. So he kept a bit too much bottled up and buttoned up. I think he had a lot of unresolved anger and sadness and the Alzheimer’s robbed him of both the ability to keep them contained as well as the tools he might have used to deal with them, had he chosen to do so (which he probably would not have).
Thank you (belatedly) for your words and your thoughts.
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I forgot to say I enjoyed the photographs, too – of course!
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🙂
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