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 

• A Cliff Dwelling by Robert Frost by Robert Frost
• A Brook in the City by Robert Frost by Robert Frost
• A Boundless Moment by Robert Frost by Robert Frost
• The Easter Egg Hunt by Roger Turner by Poetry In English
• Nikolai Gumilev – by Fledermaus
• The Land of Counterpane by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• Come, My Beloved, Hear From Me by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• Come, Here Is Adieu To The City by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• Come From The Daisied Meadows by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• Block City by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• Behold, As Goblins Dark Of Mien by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• Before This Little Gift Was Come by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• Away With Funeral Music by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• Auntie’s Skirts by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• At the Sea-Side by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• At Last She Comes by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• As One Who Having Wandered All Night Long by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• As In Their Flight The Birds Of Song by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson
• Armies in the Fire by Robert Louis Stevenson by Robert Louis Stevenson

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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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