You are currently browsing the daily archive for June 17, 2019.

Last night on the flight home from Wisconsin I wrote an entry about some melancholic feelings I was having after my holiday. I went to post it this morning but I can’t find it. I frequently misplace things and I am forever taunted by the Car Key Gnomes and Cup Sprites moving my things around but this one has me nonplussed. Where is it? Did I write it only to erase it?  Who can say.

The Board of Directors Here at Spo-reflections in their latest board meeting suggested I ‘shake things up” but they didn’t give me guidance what this means. Once again I am to deduce what on earth I am supposed to do. It reminds me of  when Mother would tell me to ‘stop doing that’ without clarifying what I was doing wrong. TBDHSR are going to be mad as wet hens when they discover I’ve decided to revive my “Poetry” entries.

Oh the horror.

I like a good poem and I like to pass on the ones I find amusing, moving, and powerful. They are poison at the box office (hence the ire of the who-know-who) but there it is. I will try this on a regular basis for a while until they catch on what I am doing and threaten to use my nadgers for earrings.

In honor of the misplaced entry that ought to be here this morning:

Forgetfulness – Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.


Blog Stats

  • 1,859,426 Visitors and droppers-by


June 2019

Spo-Reflections 2006-2018