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Thursday, 23 February 2012

A memory box




As part of the route 66,  through life 
Nightingale signals that, there is one we are tasked to
Ordinarily it seems impenitent, effortlessly required  


But it has to be honoured  that is the deal  
With the price required of one 
On inevitability, it has to be paid 


Not so heavily on one's stock 
At a go, of such price required  to see 
Hence its absence, the realization of commitment  

Pushed to the background, like breath 
With easy, unassuming and unimposing 
Settle with repertoire and without macho 


Yet it exists in ways that comes to light 
Manifest when need be, and it is called upon. 
One of these days you will come to know such notion 


When you are tasked to recall on account  
You will realize, that every passage in life
Takes from one and gives of its own 

In transformation as necessary 
Just as the nightingale sings 
On beds of roses to change colour  


Every individual or occurrence  
Leaves an imprint of their memory 
And take that of one, as exchange of gifts 


Sometimes seen vivid in daylight apparition  
You came to mind, deep from my sub-conscience 
Like a ghost from once upon a time on route 66 


At night when the nightingale sings
In the pre-dawn of darkness, you came to mind 
Her music pours out memory, you came to mind 


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4 comments:

  1. Your article was very helpful. I'm really grateful.

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  2. predawn darkness. fantastic expressions.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Kind of mysterious. What you have written here is quite interesting, and I am still trying to understand it, with its assemblage of ideas and rich images.

    Part of what I am getting is the idea that the no-effort-required approach to life is not telling the whole story, that every choice requires some kind of commitment, and perhaps to some degree, we are in it before we know, and we will need in some way to follow through (or not), and we will never completely forget the road we've chosen.

    For me, the nightingale recalls the story of the nightingale singing and bleeding until it dies, into a rose tree, in efforts to magically make a red rose out of a white one, a very sad tale. Interesting that you begin and end with a nightingale, but this one pours out memory instead of life/love blood along with her music.

    The memory box reminds me of an art project done by a mourning group in remembrance of loved ones who had passed away-- each member of the group got a small box to decorate, and the artist/therapists who led the group arranged them all together in rows (similar to your photo, above) in a museum for display in a Days of the Dead Exhibition

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