Thursday, January 16, 2014

The past is a city


You must know, memory continues in its own course,
and in its own sphere, as real and independent as any moment here,
and as delicious, too, in its very dream, that, the dreamer,
once departed, ever tends those places
she loves and knows best,
even as they lay
at rest.

The past is a city,
teeming with characters she loves;
instruments of painful learning, she gathers around her
as the story unfolds; and it is never the same
twice-told, but that it gains
from a telling no one
knows.

The past is imagined by someone eerily like herself,
with a sense of humor she has learned to share;
a friend, who pulses like a river in her hand,
who lives, and dies, and lives again,
the same as she’s becoming
what she’s been.

The past is the stone thrown in,
and what happens to her reflection
is what the river gives,
as much where
as when or
was as
is.



4 comments:

Jan said...

William, this is wonderful! I find myself longing for the past so often. But I do keep one foot in the present because this is where I must live or I will cease to exist~~~

William Michaelian said...

A balancing act, to be sure...

Thanks, Jan...

timoebasilico said...

...... I think sometimes that we would totally free without a past ... but the past is us, perhaps we would be free but empty, we are nothing without a past,

Your poem it's so confortable make me feel as at home

William Michaelian said...

I’m glad, Laura. Thank you. I understand what you mean.