tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77608222024-03-07T10:04:00.103+01:00arch.memoryHere I set your memory ablaze; may it burn until it glows...arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.comBlogger397125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-35974790889796756952024-01-04T19:26:00.002+01:002024-01-04T19:26:17.057+01:00Childish Fears<p>I have managed to flip my fear inside out.</p><p>Now you don't recognize it,</p><p>Now it looks like anger:</p><p>It ravages everything around me,</p><p>And everyone..</p><p>Could it all be something else?</p><p>All the empathy and the compassion?</p><p>Is it only because last century it was me</p><p>That was the child in fear?</p><p>Of the same terror, rolling its aRs</p><p>And mangling our 7as,</p><p>Like the flight of death?</p><p>I think of the one I love:</p><p>Was all his resentment only</p><p>Because, a decade or two ago,</p><p>He too was the child in fear,</p><p>Abandoned like all the children</p><p>Now ravaging our screens?</p><p>And what becomes of it?</p><p>All this fear? All this apathy?</p><p>All these angry childish stares?</p><p>What remains when the faces are gone?</p>arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-72345361818768149972023-12-26T13:17:00.008+01:002023-12-26T15:14:56.436+01:00Holy Night<div>I think of my dead father,</div><div>How heartbroken he would have been.</div><div>I wonder if he knows what's going on;</div><div>I hope he doesn't.</div><div>I hope, after we pass, there is </div><div>Only a peaceful void, and that </div><div>All encompassing glow of love.</div><div>Though I sometimes wish for Hell </div><div>For those who unleash it here.</div><div>But I assume She knows best,</div><div>She who is All, the Good and the Bad,</div><div>The Love and the Suffering.</div><div>I assume there is a meaning behind </div><div>All this cruelty, all this injustice.</div><div>I think back to that night when</div><div>For a while I was Her, when </div><div>Everything dissolved </div><div>Into little glimmers of Love.</div><div>There was nothing else, but the breeze</div><div>And the hand of my dead grandmother </div><div>Feeling my beard for the first time.</div>arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-10951188764203841082023-09-22T12:23:00.002+02:002023-10-28T12:28:48.396+02:00Useless Objects<p>I have my wedding ring still. </p><p>I have the watch I gave to you on our anniversary.</p><p>Always on mind, it says; I gave it to him.</p><p>And your hand-me-downs; also gave some to him.</p><p>I have photo albums filled with people no longer there;</p><p>People I no longer talk to, people I loved once.</p><p>I have shelves full of music I no longer listen to,</p><p>Books I'll probably never read,</p><p>Films I'll likely never see.</p><p>And somewhere, I'm sure, </p><p>There a piece of a life I'll never live.</p>arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-85323597884637951582023-08-26T01:30:00.000+02:002023-08-29T18:38:27.196+02:00Absolution<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em><span style="color: #999999;">To My People </span></em><br />
<br />
I absolve myself of you.<br />
I absolve me of the anger<br />
dripping morbidly from turbid eyes;<br />
of the hatred, loud and raucous,<br />
and stupid;<br />
of the ignorance engulfing you<br />
like summer haze:<br />
humid, and sticky, and slowly reeking.<br />
I absolve me of your sins.<br />
<br />
I absolve me of your children,<br />
dull and arrogant,<br />
and devoid of hope.<br />
I absolve me of your tongue,<br />
its beautiful words<br />
gone blind.<br />
<br />
I absolve me even of myself,<br />
this guilt of being,<br />
this exhaust of writing,<br />
this ball of fury in your throats.<br />
I absolve me even of this,<br />
the need for absolution.<br />
<br />
<em><span style="color: #999999;">(Originally posted on May 22, 2007)</span></em></div>
arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-1091825079880982332023-08-23T23:40:00.000+02:002023-08-29T18:35:48.549+02:00Exit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #999999;"><i>Of callous politicians everywhere</i></span><br />
<br />
It’s time for us to exit<br />
The stage and leave<br />
The animals to shred<br />
Their shadows<br />
<br />
It’s time for us to exit<br />
Without looking back<br />
Turn off the light<br />
Set the set on fire<br />
And leave<br />
<br />
It’s time for them<br />
To cry our tears<br />
To taste the salt<br />
And the soles of our feet<br />
And lick our spit<br />
Off the floor<br />
<br />
We shall burn in their retinas<br />
Like the afterimage of a nightmare<br />
We shall linger<br />
Like the caustic aftertaste<br />
Of regret<br />
<br />
It shall burn<br />
And we shall smile<br />
They shall writhe<br />
And we shall smirk<br />
Through their moans<br />
<br />
Spill me<br />
Onto their gaping flesh<br />
Like lemon juice<br />
Bitter and bright<br />
Scrape me<br />
Off of their green skins<br />
Like a dead dream<br />
<br />
For we shall fester<br />
Wherever they dare to smile<br />
We shall bite<br />
Like a ravenous hunger<br />
They never knew<br />
<br />
And we shall recur<br />
Like a hallucination<br />
Like loss<br />
Like life<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #666666;">(Originally posted Aug. 6, 2004)</span></i></div>
arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-28824248912135402272023-06-15T01:08:00.000+02:002023-06-23T11:00:02.431+02:00We are the clumsy passersbyWhen words fail me (or I fail them), sometimes the only consolation is the realization that I will never approach the greatness of what's been said:<br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-style: italic;">We are the clumsy passersby, we push past each other with elbows,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">with feet, with trousers, with suitcases,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">we get off the train, the jet plane, the ship, we step down</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">in our wrinkled suits and sinister hats.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">We are all guilty, we are all sinners,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">we come from dead-end hotels or industrial peace,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">this might be our last clean shirt,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">we have misplaced our tie,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">yet even so, on the edge of panic, pompous,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">sons of bitches who move in the highest circles</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">or quiet types who don't owe anything to anybody,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">we are one and the same, the same in time's eyes,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">or in solitude's: we are the poor devils</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">who earn a living and a death working</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">bureautragically or in the usual ways,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">sitting down or packed together in subway stations,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">boats, mines, research centers, jails,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">universities, breweries,</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">(under our clothes the same thirsty skin),</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">(the hair, the same hair, only in different colors).</span><br />
<br />
-Pablo Neruda</blockquote>
arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-43056904717362870082022-12-07T01:02:00.001+01:002023-10-28T15:50:04.025+02:00Silent GreenWe pass through death quietly,<br />
Sight unseen--<br />
Slipping like ghosts at a party,<br />
Unnoticed--<br />
Haunting the spaces that carry<br />
Our smells like second skins...<br />
<br />
Sideway glances in a crowd,<br />
The sound of laughter receding,<br />
Entering the cool darkness of the air<br />
Willingly--<br />
On the other side, imagined relief,<br />
A new beginning, or respite<br />
From weathered selves?<br />
<br />
The train passes. Let it go.<br />
Another will come. You wait.<br />
You listen into the tunnel:<br />
Fluorescent light on white tiles,<br />
And a faint hum...<br />
<br />
The story continues. The world<br />
Never fails a beat. You want it to<br />
Notice the absence. But it churns<br />
Beings like dust, lives like smoke,<br />
And hurtles on...<br />
<br />
Someone will notice. Someone will choke.<br />
Someone will face the night alone tonight.<br />
Reaching an arm across an empty bed,<br />
Someone will feel the cold of the sheets.<br />
Absence will resonate somewhere,<br />
Will echo, and rage, and plunder...<br />
<br />
Facing the night, with the knowledge<br />
Of life elsewhere, undeterred--<br />
You hold your silence,<br />
You face your absence--<br />
This once you will not look away.<br />
It is here. And you are ready.<br />
<div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #666666; font-family: "IM Fell Great Primer"; text-size-adjust: auto;"><i>(originally posted on May 07, 2017)</i></span></div>arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-88369039567529769302022-08-21T11:45:00.008+02:002022-08-22T18:44:10.262+02:00Here's to Beirut<div><i> "...Above the city of losses, the city of Lights<br />Bouncing back off a starless sky, the city<br />Where we'll try to save this night from the death of nights."<br /> - Joe Bolton, "The Name of Desire"</i><br /><br /></div><div>Here's to the glitz of a dying city <br />That no longer resembles itself<br />Because its light has been stolen..<br />Here’s to the glam of a deranged city<br />that no longer resembles another<br />Because its promise has been broken..<br />Here's to a tired city, a toxic city, a cruel city<br />A city of thieves, and of charlatans<br />Of open sewers, and blocked roads<br />A city of revolt, of anger and despair..<br />A city that has died a hundred times <br />And deserved every single death..<br />A city that has killed a million times <br />And savored every single one..<br />Here's to Beirut, the Medusa, the Hydra<br />And the ever burning Phoenix <br />The masochist and the sadist <br />The victim and the crime..</div>arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-1138579861006400642022-08-17T23:15:00.000+02:002022-08-17T23:16:04.158+02:00The Smallness of Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #999999; font-style: italic;">(To <a href="http://somethingkaty.blogspot.com/">Katy</a>)</span><br />
<br />
This,<br />
the smallness of my life, I said,<br />
can you see it?<br />
<blockquote>
<i>But she said nothing,</i><br />
<i>she just wrote</i><br />
<i>a series of details</i><br />
<i>and small spaces.</i></blockquote>
My life used to spread, I said,<br />
over pot-holed streets and easy laughter,<br />
a time when youth was<br />
just another smell in the air.<br />
<blockquote>
<i>But she said nothing,</i><br />
<i>she just sniffed;</i><br />
<i>from where she stood,</i><br />
<i>she could smell it still.</i></blockquote>
But my life has stretched so thin, I said,<br />
it has shrunk into this square mile<br />
between where I sleep and where I yawn.<br />
<blockquote>
This corner of the world, I said,<br />
that I call my own;<br />
this bit of the earth<br />
I staked as home.<br />
<br />
This piece of life, I said,<br />
that I squander at will;<br />
this circle of friends<br />
I ignore to call.<br />
<br />
This head resting on my hip,<br />
this hour of the day when the sky<br />
looks like Mary in front of the cross.<br />
<br />
This hollow in my heart<br />
where they used to be;<br />
this cat, this breath, this,<br />
this smallness of my life... </blockquote>
<i>But she said nothing,</i><br />
<i>she just blinked.</i><br />
<i>Her life wasn't any bigger.</i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #999999;">(Originally post on January 30, 2006)</span></i></div>
arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-89420753846839916172022-08-15T11:17:00.001+02:002022-08-16T12:08:25.729+02:00I Thought We Were<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>To friends departed too early</em><br />
<br />
I thought we were endless,<br />
raging against the night,<br />
laughing life in the face,<br />
and running...<br />
<br />
I thought we were shameless,<br />
masters of our indolence,<br />
wasting time like we owned it,<br />
and yawning...<br />
<br />
I thought we were spotless,<br />
dazzling and daring,<br />
dreaming of one day,<br />
and dashing...<br />
<br />
I thought we were painless...<br />
<br />
I thought we were later:<br />
first grandparents,<br />
then parents,<br />
then us...<br />
<br />
I thought we were future,<br />
till the past piled on,<br />
today slipped by,<br />
and now…<br />
<br />
I think we are naked,<br />
humbled and defenseless,<br />
<br />
standing in the wind, and bowing,<br />
seeing for the first time our culling<br />
<br />
what remains of us, scattered<br />
and huddled, and hoping…<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #999999;">Originally posted on Friday, October 05, 2007
</span></i></div>
arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-8922109016296612722022-05-05T00:04:00.000+02:002022-05-05T09:27:10.867+02:00TetaToday is the 20 year anniversary of my grandma's passing, the event that got me into poetry... I seem to have dried up recently, but here's some of what I'd written for her during the years:<br />
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://archmemory.blogspot.com/2005/05/you-lie.html">"You Lie"</a></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://archmemory.blogspot.com/2005/06/here.html">"Here"</a></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://archmemory.blogspot.com/2006/05/vacancies.html">"Vacancies"</a></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://archmemory.blogspot.com/2009/05/missing.html">"Missing"</a></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnUd4HIyFktwBIhFdFdFrVMIa44uEgh_O7LDbISTm1dGBxMIBCDvoPjfvoos98ql6ig1BTqkeYRCe52iPQ8JDIHGJ7x2G0PN46SitzLVYquPB-66w7Ps9w4q2WE3ekXPXLFpO8Lw/s1600-h/Teta+%26+I.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060925167257492434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnUd4HIyFktwBIhFdFdFrVMIa44uEgh_O7LDbISTm1dGBxMIBCDvoPjfvoos98ql6ig1BTqkeYRCe52iPQ8JDIHGJ7x2G0PN46SitzLVYquPB-66w7Ps9w4q2WE3ekXPXLFpO8Lw/s320/Teta+%26+I.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<i>I miss you, Teta...</i></div>arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-1091583633066514082022-04-04T11:40:00.000+02:002022-05-05T09:25:25.604+02:00Comfortably Numb<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i><a href="http://archmemory.blogspot.ch/search/label/Song%20%28Re%29Cycle%202014" rel="tag">Song (Re)Cycle</a>: Of Grief IV</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><span style="color: #999999;">To those left behind..</span></i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Stuff the slices down your throat<br />
And choke on a smile<br />
The end bounces off of a black screen<br />
<br />
The line thins between the zenith and the abyss<br />
He tells me my pain is only resistance<br />
"Grieve!" he says, my agony does not suffice<br />
Grieve loss upon loss until you are unaware of losses<br />
<br />
Now it's their turn to fall from grace<br />
From the stars, from above<br />
And my turn to put them back up<br />
Where they belong<br />
<br />
My laughter sobs<br />
And I become, I hope<br />
comfortably numb</blockquote>
<br />
<i><span style="color: #666666;">(Originally posted on Aug. 3, 2004; re-posted on July 24, 2006)</span></i></div>
arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-1102311114915651342022-03-17T21:17:00.000+01:002022-03-18T10:55:18.958+01:00I’ll Be (Nothing)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I’ll be nothing, that’s what I’ll be.<br />
I’ll be the limbs breaking on the ice,<br />
I’ll be desire melting onto itself,<br />
I’ll be the longing that possesses me <br />
That I’ll never possess.<br />
<br />
I’ll be nothing, that’s what I’ll be.<br />
I’ll be the vicious hope that rides me to death,<br />
I’ll be just another breath, another step <br />
To nowhere...<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #999999;">
(originally posted on December 06, 2004)</span></i>
</div>
arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-22421475406753970402022-02-07T19:44:00.002+01:002022-02-07T19:44:25.896+01:00 D(e)ad<p>When I get back you may be gone </p><p>But I don't want to see you before I go </p><p>I don't want to see you like this </p><p>I don't want to remember you like this </p><p>I don't want to remember you </p><p>I don't want</p><p>I don't care</p><p>I don't care to forgive you </p><p>I don't care to forgive me</p><p>I don't </p>arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-9747877934235693292022-01-07T20:28:00.001+01:002022-01-15T20:30:24.578+01:00Parts of You <p>Parts of you stay with me</p><p>Stay in me</p><p>Stay as me</p><p><br /></p><p>Parts of you stay</p><p>When you're gone</p><p>When I'm gone</p><p><br /></p><p>Parts of you--</p><p>Stay!</p><p>Gone..</p><p></p>arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-66539115843693966432021-11-17T20:11:00.001+01:002021-11-17T20:54:25.717+01:00 Insistence of Being<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
And if I disappear, where would I go?</div>
<div>
The silence left behind will not be heard</div>
<div>
Amidst the noise. How long would it take</div>
<div>
For anyone to notice the absence? And</div>
<div>
Would it matter? Would any of it matter?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A church bell tolls, water gurgles,</div>
<div>
A bird chimes another, as if in peace.</div>
<div>
Life thrust upon us, an insistence of being,</div>
<div>
An echoless voice in a chamber too full,</div>
<div>
Is there any choice besides its negation?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I do not reject you, fellow prisoners,</div>
<div>
I reject this, the sentence, the ruthlessness </div>
<div>
Of being, of time, of life, </div>
<div>
Of that essential loneliness that envelops us, </div>
<div>
That wraps us all like a shroud since birth.</div><div><br /></div><div><h2 class="date-header" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: white; font-family: "IM Fell Great Primer"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0.5em 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><span style="color: #d0d0d0;"><i>(originally posted on May 24, 2017)</i></span></h2></div>
</div>
arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-60145415689699111412021-09-06T11:44:00.013+02:002021-09-21T16:22:49.219+02:00A Time Before <p>A time before you and me</p><p>A time before the past was past </p><p>A time before the present got past</p><p>And then the future, too--</p><p>The future went past</p><p>And you and I</p><p>Lost in the past</p><p>In this forgotten city</p><p>Blown up by the sea </p><p>At the edge of an old dusty world...</p><p><br /></p><p>A time before my mom, and her mom </p><p>A time before my dad forgot the world </p><p>And remembered only his sadness </p><p>Curled it up like a kitten </p><p>Hurled up into his lap</p><p>And licked it clean...</p><p><br /></p><p><i>(inspired by:</i></p><p><i><a href="https://www.the961.com/photos-lebanon-1900s-1920s/?swcfpc=1&fbclid=IwAR10jfAtXPDdw43guP5E-pgO3OIG7I4BcnhU-c4DpaWSxKlBnRlrR1dwwwE">https://www.the961.com/photos-lebanon-1900s-1920s</a>)</i></p><p><br /></p>arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-18969996099127155752021-09-01T12:22:00.004+02:002021-09-21T16:22:04.202+02:00The Worst of It<i>My first Covid symptoms appeared on Wednesday, August 4th, 2021. After 2 negative PCR tests, I got officially diagnosed, through a chest scan, the following Tuesday. That day the virus had attacked 10% of the lung. By Sunday, it was 70%; an ambulance took to the ER. I stayed 12 days in the ICU, 15 in the hospital in total. My lungs burst; I have 80% damage in one, 20% in the other. The air got trapped under the skin, causing swelling in the neck and face. Recovery is estimated to take between weeks and months. But it's good to be back home, even if on oxygen.</i><div><br /></div><div><div>Living without perfume,</div><div>That wasn't the worst of it.</div><div>It wasn't coughing while your nose splattered blood,</div><div>Nor having to eliminate in a bed as someone watched.</div><div>It wasn't the tubes sticking out of you as you tried to sleep,</div><div>Nor was it the moving bruise of the ever-shifting IV.</div><div>It wasn't the isolation of the gray walls, the viewless window, and sleepless nights,</div><div>Nor was it trying to assure your mother as you wanted to cry.</div><div>It wasn't the bloated face that greeted you with a scare in the mirror,</div><div>Nor the burst lungs, and the air trapped under the skin.</div><div>It wasn't the exorbitant bills of a country falling apart,</div><div>Nor was it getting out to a room without AC in the midst of collapse.</div><div>It wasn't realizing that your father cared more about his suffering than yours,</div><div>Nor was it realizing that you cared about yours more than his...</div><div>It was realizing that you still had your foot, and your brother, and somewhat your breath,</div><div>And you still didn't know what to make of them...</div></div>arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-1109278880918932412021-07-23T22:30:00.000+02:002021-07-26T23:24:44.589+02:00Someday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i><a href="http://archmemory.blogspot.ch/search/label/Song%20%28Re%29Cycle%202014" rel="tag">Song (Re)Cycle 2014</a>: Of Hope III</i> <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Someday<br />
when it’s all done<br />
and the white foam pours forth<br />
you’ll be telling me<br />
that song we drew when<br />
the grass was freshly mown<br />
was embroidered into<br />
your mother’s skirt.<br />
<br />
I will turn<br />
and absorb your face<br />
like it was the last kite of summer<br />
and together we will drip<br />
like old wounds<br />
at the back of the throat.<br />
There will be nothing that night<br />
but the bees that circled our heads<br />
and a sigh that congealed<br />
with a dream.</blockquote>
<br />
<div class="date-header" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>(Originally posted on February 25, 2005)</i></span></div>
</div>
arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-1152156928726283732020-09-20T21:22:00.000+02:002020-09-20T21:43:34.020+02:00Reasons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: white;"> </span>Because in the distance between<br />
when we die and when we forget about it<br />
is where our happiness is pitted;<br />
<br />
<span style="color: white;"> </span>Because in the intensity of the green<br />
I seek respite from your drenched words and<br />
pretend that your life doesn't trudge along elsewhere;<br />
<br />
<span style="color: white;"> </span>Because in the middle of the woods you only grunted<br />
when I told you that I love you, and I took that to mean<br />
"Yes, me too, very much," and smiled to myself;<br />
<br />
<span style="color: white;"> </span>Because the comfort of thinking that this is all there is<br />
is seeping back in, and that the world begins with<br />
my mud-crusted shoes and ends with the jargon in my head;<br />
<br />
<span style="color: white;"> </span>Because the possibilities of all the faces passing me by<br />
passes along with them, and their beaming eyes bore through me<br />
holes as big and blue as the sky, that they don't even look through;<br />
<br />
<span style="color: white;"> </span>Because I promised, if given another chance, I would grab on to it<br />
though I don't know what that means; and I made a vow of goodness<br />
to a God I don't believe in--and I wonder if He believes in me.<br />
<br /></div>
<i><span style="color: #999999;">(Originally posted on July 6th, 2006)</span></i></div>
arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-1140397628341948502020-08-15T12:00:00.000+02:002020-08-25T20:53:09.455+02:00There’s No Forgetting (Sonata)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have been aching for words to say it; but words are failing me again, and again, and again... And in the end I just return to this haunting poem by Pablo Neruda, perhaps my favorite of his, and on which I based my thesis, <a href="http://www.111101.net/Writings/Essays_Research/ashraf_osman/thesis_1.php">"Memory for Forgetfulness”: Registering/Effacing the Memory of the Lebanese War</a>, which has, at once, tragically come back to life and become laughably irrelevant...<br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ask me where I have been</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and I’ll tell you: “Things keep on happening.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I must talk of the rubble that darkens the stones;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">of the river’s duration, destroying itself;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I know only the things that the birds have abandoned,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">or the sea behind me, or my sorrowing sister.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Why the distinctions of place? Why should day</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">follow day? Why must the blackness</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">of nighttime collect in our mouths? Why the dead?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If you question me: where have you come from, I must talk</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">___</span>with things falling away,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">artifacts tart to the taste,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">great, cankering beasts, as often as not,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and my own inconsolable heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Those who cross over with us are no keepsakes,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">nor the yellowing pigeon that sleeps in forgetfulness:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">only the face with its tears,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the hands at our throats,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">whatever the leafage dissevers:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the dark of an obsolete day,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">a day that has tasted the grief in our blood.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here are the violets, swallows—</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">all the things that delight us, the delicate tallies</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">that show in the lengthening train</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">through which pleasure and transience pass.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here let us halt, in the teeth of a barrier:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">useless to gnaw on the husks that the silence assembles.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For I come without answers:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">see: the dying are legion,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">legion, the breakwaters breached by the red of the sun,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the headpieces knocking the ship’s side,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the hands closing over their kisses,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and legion the things I would give to oblivion.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
—Pablo Neruda</blockquote>
<i>© Translation: 1974, Ben Belitt<br />From: </i>Pablo Neruda, Five Decades: Poems 1925-1970<i><br />Publisher: Grove Press, New York, 1974<br />Hear this recited at <a href="http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/poem/item/22619/auto/Pablo-Neruda/THERES-NO-FORGETTING-SONATA" target="_blank">Poetry International Festival Rotterdam</a>, 2004 </i><i>by Krip Yuso. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><u><b>No Hay Olvido (Sonata)</b></u><br /><br />Si me preguntáis en dónde he estado<br />debo decir "Sucede".<br />Debo de hablar del suelo que oscurecen las piedras,<br />del río que durando se destruye:<br />no sé sino las cosas que los pájaros pierden,<br />el mar dejado atrás, o mi hermana llorando.<br />Por qué tantas regiones, por qué un día<br />se junta con un día? Por qué una negra noche<br />se acumula en la boca? Por qué muertos?<br /><br />Si me preguntáis de dónde vengo, tengo que conversar con<br /> cosas rotas,<br />con utensilios demasiado amargos,<br />con grandes bestias a menudo podridas<br />y con mi acongojado corazón.<br /><br />No son recuerdos los que se han cruzado<br />ni es la paloma amarillenta que duerme en el olvido,<br />sino caras con lágrimas,<br />dedos en la garganta,<br />y lo que se desploma de las hojas:<br />la oscuridad de un día transcurrido,<br />de un día alimentado con nuestra triste sangre.<br /><br />He aquí violetas, golondrinas,<br />todo cuanto nos gusta y aparece<br />en las dulces tarjetas de larga cola<br />por donde se pasean el tiempo y la dulzura.<br /><br />Pero no penetremos más allá de esos dientes,<br />no mordamos las cáscaras que el silencio acumula,<br />porque no sé qué contestar:<br />hay tantos muertos,<br />y tantos malecones que el sol rojo partía,<br />y tantas cabezas que golpean los buques,<br />y tantas manos que han encerrado besos,<br />y tantas cosas que quiero olvidar.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>—Pablo Neruda</i></div>
</div>
arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-1158063620775515322020-08-04T13:55:00.001+02:002021-07-26T23:26:21.118+02:00The Worst Is Yet to ComeShed them one by one<br />
like recent habits,<br />
perhaps, or ancient loves.<br />
<br />
Feel the world denting under your knees--<br />
bury your face deeper in the pillow,<br />
and let it out.<br />
<br />
Listen to the grinding of Fate's stone<br />
chaffing your thighs,<br />
pencil a smirk across your face<br />
and raise it to the light.<br />
<br />
The worst is yet to come.<br />
<br />
<br />
In lawns that knew nothing<br />
but the breeze dabbling in poetry,<br />
a hammock strung<br />
like angels to the skies;<br />
<br />
In dusks wrapped in their own perfection,<br />
and beaches slumbering at the lap of forever;<br />
<br />
You sat, eyes wide, words few,<br />
absorbing the sand like it's all that is left,<br />
spitting it out variations on the divine.<br />
<br />
The horizon blinked under your gaze,<br />
and repeated itself, fumbling and hurried,<br />
waiting for reassurance<br />
at the corners of your mouth.<br />
<br />
<br />
Plunge it, once more, into darkness<br />
and burn a sigh.<br />
<br />
We make alliances of convenience,<br />
greeting smiles with a stare,<br />
showcasing the cleared lots<br />
like something’s there.<br />
<br />
But the words dim, and scramble,<br />
and shift direction on the page.<br />
<br />
They know, too, like I do,<br />
like the night falls,<br />
they sing it under their breath:<br />
<br />
The worst is yet to come.<br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>(To Katyssima, originally posted </i>on September 12, 2006<i>)</i></span>arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-28954778293613103512020-07-18T22:17:00.001+02:002020-07-18T22:17:48.554+02:00VI. The Sinking River at Stevensport Closing your eyes, you can see <div>What nobody ever saw: </div><div>It is midnight, past midnight, </div><div>The figure just visible </div><div>In the moonless, dew-laden dark </div><div>Where river empties into </div><div>River, and the water makes </div><div>No sound, or a sound like time, </div><div>Which stands still now on the bank. </div><div>He, too, stands still on the bank, </div><div>Late-summer night wind whipping </div><div>The white linen of his coat- </div><div>For, yes, he always did have </div><div>A sense of style in such things. </div><div>Behind him, the white car shines </div><div>Under what starlight there is. </div><div>He stares at what stars there are </div><div>And remembers—or does he?- </div><div>The flowered dress he bought you </div><div>And raised above your waist here </div><div>So you could straddle his lap. </div><div>Does he think of the river </div><div>Lit at Louisville, where some- </div><div>Thing he can hardly admit </div><div>To himself happened?—happened </div><div>To you, though you both agreed </div><div>It was the best thing to do. . . . </div><div>Does he speak aloud now to </div><div>No one? Does he say a name? </div><div>Does he say your name before </div><div>He walks into the river? </div><div>Or does he just walk away? </div><div>You must believe both stories </div><div>Till the world makes up its mind. </div><div>Either way, the white car shines </div><div>As dawn fights the water, and</div><div> -—All this behind your closed eyes—— </div><div>That wide water seems to hold </div><div>The dead in their element. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>- Joe Bolton, from "The Last Nostalgia"</i></div>arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-26908292964887978602019-12-03T22:34:00.001+01:002019-12-03T22:37:09.851+01:00SONG (re)CYCLE 2019: Lebanese Revolution Edition<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As Sylvia Plath wrote:<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
"I have done it again. </div>
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
One year in every ten </div>
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
I manage it——"</div>
Well, maybe not every ten, but every few years it seems to happen. Something momentous happens (in the Middle East) that I feel the need to respond to. But since my words have not been serving me as well in recent years, I've resorted to this <a href="https://archmemory.blogspot.com/search/label/Song%20%28Re%29Cycle" target="_blank">poem recycling</a>.. I resumed this edition without planning, a reaction, a need to borrow words from my past self to respond too current events. Thus <i><a href="https://archmemory.blogspot.com/2007/05/absolution.html" target="_blank">Absolution</a></i> appeared in <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/B5XQnVyhH0m/?igshid=r1xibu43pcxe" target="_blank">Kalam Thawra</a>. I'd left the previous cycle unfinished a couple of years ago. So I thought I'd continue where I left off, auspiciously I'd like to think, towards the end of grief and beginning of hope. So let's hope..<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz95BBurGD2aYHfpfGIGYmPGb3qyjCY0lIWjmaqsMyVzGSlwMq-4MdwI3JJxFKMpqLfq17rnPyVCBaOez5rxiA3J31Kbz1NXLmzOojy5lIvaOeKcCoxO6QFqF9pRdH5w0r6vEWLA/s1600/77DCA9A2-E2C5-49C0-A368-F7DC41EA024D.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="713" data-original-width="720" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz95BBurGD2aYHfpfGIGYmPGb3qyjCY0lIWjmaqsMyVzGSlwMq-4MdwI3JJxFKMpqLfq17rnPyVCBaOez5rxiA3J31Kbz1NXLmzOojy5lIvaOeKcCoxO6QFqF9pRdH5w0r6vEWLA/s320/77DCA9A2-E2C5-49C0-A368-F7DC41EA024D.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760822.post-1106252960390097422019-12-02T20:27:00.000+01:002019-12-06T18:11:00.235+01:00Perduto<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
“You’ll never be great,” he said.<br />
“And I am fine with that,<br />
“But you are not.”<br />
<br />
I sleep<br />
But wake up like I haven’t<br />
The skyline looks at me<br />
Grey and cold<br />
The same green windows<br />
That soon won’t be there<br />
<br />
I sit<br />
I stare<br />
I breathe deep<br />
And suffocate<br />
A beam, check where it is<br />
Erase<br />
Damn, it’s gone<br />
Irretrievable<br />
<br />
Songs rush through my head<br />
In tiny white tubes<br />
I am numb<br />
Numb is good<br />
<br />
I revolt<br />
Against good<br />
Against beautiful<br />
Against my own ill-defined self<br />
But I don’t have the energy<br />
So I let it be<br />
<br />
“<em>Perduto…”</em><br />
She sings in my head<br />
Like memories of our life there<br />
Like the train tracks we waited in front of<br />
And the night wrapped us with a dream<br />
Flavored of hazelnut <span style="font-style: italic;">gelato</span><br />
<br />
On it goes<br />
We laugh together again<br />
It is snowing<br />
I can’t wait to be home<br />
With you<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #666666;">(Originally posted on January 20, 2005)</span></i></div>
arch.memoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13902709126678545260noreply@blogger.com1