Of Poetry and Memory

Another blogger has challenged her readers to participate in a "great poem caper". I don't fancy myself a poet, so I probably wouldn't have been too tempted to try it (since it involves posting my "poetry" publicly)... except that she happened to provide just the right prompt.

This morning I started to read "England, England" by Julian Barnes, and the first few paragraphs captured my imagination. In them the author discusses one woman's well-warranted mistrust of memory:

A memory now of a memory a bit earlier of a memory before that of a memory way back when. So people assertively remember a face, a knee that bounced them, a springtime meadow; a dog, a granny, a woollen animal whose ear disintegrated after wet chewing [...] They remembered all this confidently, uncontradictably, but whether it was the report of others, a fond imagining, or the softly calculated attempt to take the listener's heart between finger and thumb and give it a tweak whose spreading bruise would last until love had struck -- whatever its source and intent, she mistrusted it.

That fluid aspect of memory absolutely fascinates me, and I have to wonder which, if any, of my memories are uncolored by what I know now and who I am now. Since I spent time thinking about memory this morning, and found this challenge tonight, I decided to give it a go. Why not? With any luck you won't remember them anyway!

I chose option 3, which was to take a first line and run with it. Oh, and, in true Orthodox fashion, I wrote not once, not twice, but three times.


If memories were sparrows...

If memories were sparrows…
They’d feed on seeds of love,
Nest in sturdy, sun-warm branches,
Content to glean life from dirt.

If memories were goslings,
Unruffled by fear’s winds,
They’d float freely and weightlessly,
Winging back to heart’s true home.

If memories were falcons,
They’d spot the smallest good,
Hold it fast with iron talons,
Ever vigilant and brave.

If memories were ostrich,
With strength they would endure,
They’d run life’s long miles unchanging,
Rooted with feet on the ground.

If memories were peacocks,
They’d capture in their plumes
All that’s light and all that glistens,
Vibrant, beautiful and proud.

If memories were penguins,
Plunging into icy seas,
They’d weather tide and undertow,
Find sustenance and succor.

If memories were songbirds,
Their gift soft, lilting strains,
They’d bring the heavens down to earth,
And lift to heaven the broken.

If memories were feathered,
Prey to pride and ego.
We’d cage; we’d clip their spreading wings,
We’d mute their truthful singing.

---


If memories were sparrows,
I’d shun the fancy songbirds and flashy waterfowl.
I would scoff at the showy peacock and silly long-necked heron,
Eschew (I would) the glowing colors of the flamingo and the glum scowl of the vulture.
I’d sniff at soaring hawks, at chattering nightingales, and shush the bright canary.
Then I’d scatter the choicest seeds far and wide
For those unassuming brown birds, the innumerable sparrows,
Every one so like the others, and yet so distinct and powerful,
gathering at the feeder of my heart.


---


If memories were sparrows,
Life would be simpler.
Sparrows can be captured, cataloged and caged.
While they, like any living thing, would change as they aged and would eventually die,
They would retain their nature through the changing,
As our bodies reproduces our fingerprints and every cell, our DNA.

If memories were sparrows,
I could selectively breed, choosing, of course, only the most robust and pleasant.
I release the defective birds to oblivion in the world and erase their records in my logs.
I could feed and nurture my favorites, and keep them always before me.
I could mercifully end the suffering of the damaged, broken specimens to promote happiness.

If memories were sparrows,
I would not have to be changed by them.
I could leave them behind when I wanted to escape, or move to a clime where they cannot thrive.
I could neglect them, feed them cold French fries – they wouldn’t complain.

If memories were sparrows,
I would be free to be me without feathers and droppings.
Ah… but then who would “me” be?
A tabula rasa? The happiest of souls?

If memories were sparrows,
Carefully culled and groomed,
Would I cling to the birds of destruction, death and despair?
Would I choose to enshrine in my heart the bloody memory of Christ?
Would I look at myself and remember my sins?

If memories were sparrows,
Death would be simpler.
It would come to me, silent, comfortable, and welcome, as I would be ensconced in my aviary of pride and aversion to suffering.
And only in eternity would I have to remember.