Ode to Memory, After Neruda
Ode to Memory, After Neruda
Memory has scattered
its leaves
a necklace, bowl and
letter
all this
that is known
today
a worn book
as if it was yesterday
on the skin
meaningful symbols
or absence of
in spring
a shallow imprint,
movement of the hand
bearing landscape
sweetly
to bring you
here.
Nani, so deftly cut with words, a carving out of memory, tightly drawn through your fingertips.
Love, Mary
I have been drawn back into poetry by my Russian friends! How they love their poetry and their poets. Spent yesterday with many Russians. The first two hours sitting in a McDonald’s with Alison, my “teacher” and Irina who has just returned from two months in St. Petersburg, escaping the summer heat of Indiana, visiting her son, staying at her dacha, picking berries and mushrooms, swimming in the cold lake, avoiding the summer crowds in the beautiful city itself. We read poetry…mostly by or about Pushkin. She brought back a beautiful book of his poetry. We study together at this clean and convenient McDonalds because she has too many cats at her house for comfort. LOL.
Your poem here makes me think of this one about Pushkin by a Russian lady whose name escapes me in the moment. Written in 1911. The Russian is more beautiful, the rhymes and flow and the actual words, translated into English do not really match the intensity or beauty, but convey the thought.
A swarthy youth rambled
by the forlorn lakeshore.
A century passes and we hear
his crackle on the path.
Pine needles, thick, thorny,
bury the stumps of the trees…
Here lay his tricorn hat,
his dog-eared verses by Parny.
The Russian words are more like “cherish”, “slightly audible rustle”
etc. Not such a beautiful poem in English, but expressive of how they treasure the memory of Pushkin.
After that, two hours of Russian church. Total immersion!! Many young people singing their usually plaintive songs, that very typical melancholy prevailing in their melodies. The very fast speaking young men preaching with immense passion. Afterwards, the babyuskas and the deduskas, smiling and greeting, doting on their beautiful grandchildren and pointing out their sons and daughters who sang or spoke with pride…in their faltering English or as we admit to understanding “nemnoga” (a little) they chatter on confidently in Russian as we grasp at words or sentences we can recognize and affirm. Life is so grand sometimes. Such a wonderful feeling of acceptance and embracing of the struggle we share to understand each other…language and ways. It can be fun and inspiring as I am sure you know. And then a lovely dinner with comfortable friends and language and a drive home in a fierce lightening storm that magically stopped the last mile. Poetry can certainly equate with the intensity and wonder of life itself at times. Picture now…Snoopy, twirling in pure joy!! My feelings at this moment exactly.
[...] touched by my readers’ response to my poem, and the what and how poems convey meaning, conjuring new ideas, [...]
Akmatova…that is the poet. She has a very interesting history herself.