Old Boy poem – A. Van Jordan poems

If one rainy night you find yourself
leaving a phone booth, and you meet a man
with a lavender umbrella, resist
your desire to follow him, to seek
shelter from the night in his solace.
Later, don’t fall victim to the Hypnotist’s
narcotic of clarity, which proves
a curare for the heart; her salve
is merely a bandage, under which memories
pulse. Resist the taste for something still
alive for your first meal; resist the craving
for the touch of a hand from your past.
We live some memories,
and some memories are planted. There’s
only so much space for the truth
and the fabrications to spread out
in one’s mind. When there’s no more
space, we grow desperate. You’ll ask
if practicing love for years in your mind,
prepares you for the moment,
if practicing to defend one’s life
is the same as living? You’ll
hole up, captive, in a hotel room
for fifteen years and learn to find
a man within you, which will prove
a painful introduction to the trance
into which you were born. Better
to stay under the spell of your guilt,
than to forget; you’ve already released
your pain onto the world; don’t believe
there’s some joy in forgetting.
There’s no joy in the struggle to forget.
And what appears as an endless verdant field,
only spreads across a building’s rooftop;
your peaceful sleep could be a fetal position,
which secures you in a suitcase in this field.
A bell rings, and you fall out of this luggage
like clothes you no longer fit. Now what to do?
You remember when you were the man
who fit those clothes, but you’ve forgotten this
world. Even forgotten scenes from your life,
leave shadows of the memory,
haunting your spirit
until, within a moment’s glance,
strangers passing you on the street,
observe history in your eyes. Experience
lingers through acts of forgetting,
small acts of love or trauma
falling from the same place. Whether
memory comes in the form of a stone
or a grain of sand, they both sink in water.
A tongue—even if it were, say, sworn
to secrecy; or if it were cut from one’s mouth;
yes, even without a mouth to envelop
its truth—the tongue continues to confess.

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Poems in English 

• Three Songs Of Zahir U Din by Adela Florence Nicolson
• Thoughts Mahomed Akram by Adela Florence Nicolson
• Though In My Firmament Thou Wilt Not Shine by Adela Florence Nicolson
• This Month The Almonds Bloom At Kandahar by Adela Florence Nicolson
• There Is No Breeze To Cool The Heat Of Love by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Window Overlooking The Harbour by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Tom Toms by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Temple Dancing Girl by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Teak Forest by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Singer by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The River Of Pearls At Fez Translation by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Rice Was Under Water by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Rice Boat by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Regret Of The Ranee In The Hall Of Peacocks by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Rao Of Ilore by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Plains by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Net Of Memory by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Masters by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Lute Player Of Casa Blanca by Adela Florence Nicolson
• The Lament Of Yasmini The Dancing Girl by Adela Florence Nicolson

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Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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