Pearls Come From Shellfish, After All...

Pearls come from shellfish, after all...

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture Of Dorian Gray

Perhaps it is not loss, but reincarnation: each new form growing like a fresh seedling bourn from a great and ancient tree. Are we lesser for the way we change and grow? Or perhaps are we more beautiful for how the new brush strokes alter our unfinished canvas, layer upon layer.

Immemorable

I see the statues That vaguely resemble a human, Where people sit under Eating French fries with mayonnaise; Their only use is Casting the cool of shade.

I read the books, Starting with the translator’s notes Defending their own interpretation, Or the editor, explaining choices made For this brand new edition, better fitting A modern audience.

I hear the music, Thinking about the songs Someone, somewhere Last listened to, their notes then Never being heard again; The many renditions of classical pieces All sound different.

I think about the last kid Telling his parents not to play Elvis, and The silence thereafter.

I think about the names And the way language changes; Nefertiti, Jesus, Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare, Vincent Van Gogh; All mispronounced by now, to the point One should not dare deem it their name.

I think about the poets In their ridiculous quests to be remembered Beyond the span of their lifetime.

All for nothing.

How futile it is, When even the truest lovers Never altogether get to know each other; They are lucky, thriving In a lifetime spent trying, Learning ever more In continuous fascination.

I think about you, And the way we remember; How I still profoundly love               That version of you I last saw before you left;               That version of you That only existed right there And then.

Now, long gone.

At least I still remember Your cheeks, convex, when you laughed; The sound of it, both real And politely fake; The veins of your wrist, kissed; Your thigh placed birthmark’s shape, And the power of your Loving gaze…

That you were kind, Believed in the world’s magic, and thereby Saw it created all around you.

I try to forget The way you were, When you fell out of love; Keep you at your most beautiful.

Perhaps, I don’t remember you at all then.

Only a specific version,  And only parts thereof, And all polished up, nice and shiny.

Perhaps, That’s as good as it gets In terms of being eternal within Another human.

At least I still know How to pronounce your name; I remember I asked to be sure On an otherwise Immemorable day.

— 30-8-2021, M.A. Tempels ©

“These animals are phantoms as well as monsters. They are, because they exist; if they were not, reason would be justified. They are the amphibia of death. Their improbability complicates their existence. They border on the human frontier, and people the region of Chimeras. You deny the vampire, the octopus appears. Their swarming is a certainty which disconcerts our assurance. Optimism, which is the truth, nevertheless almost loses countenance before them.”

— Victor Hugo, still completely losing what little chill he possessed over the existence of the octopus.  (via pilferingapples)

the dubious philosophy of salmon

I see myself forever and ever as the ridiculous person, the lonely soul, the wanderer, the restless frustrated artist, the person in love with love, always in search of the absolute, always seeking the unattainable.

— Henry Miller