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 Wasted Illness by Thomas Hardy by Thomas Hardy
• A Thunderstorm In Town by Thomas Hardy by Thomas Hardy
• A Jog-Trot Pair by Thomas Hardy by Thomas Hardy
• A Dream Or No by Thomas Hardy by Thomas Hardy
• Ye Mariners of England by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• To the Evening Star by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• The Last Man by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• The Dirge of Wallace by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• The Battle of the Baltic by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• Song to the Evening Star by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• Ode to Winter by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• Ode to the Memory of Burns by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• Love And Madness by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• Lord Ullin’s Daughter by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• Hohenlinden by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• Gertrude of Wyoming by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• Freedom And Love by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• Benlomond by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• Adelgitha by Thomas Campbell by Thomas Campbell
• The Resignation by Thomas Chatterton by Thomas Chatterton

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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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