What if I am the poetryman…? What if every room I have entered has had walls that spoke to me about everything that had ever happened in them; the passive defeats of a man and woman who fought bitterly before turning away from love; desirous of different outcomes?
What if what I saw in the eye pools of each person that I have met was the deepest part of them wanting the freedom to be themselves with just “one other,” and it was something I could say to them – one word or another written in a poem that might make it possible?
What if it was just the asking of one right question – the noticing of a vocal inflection, or the observation that a casual comment might not be so casual after all? Maybe that their dignity was shredded in an alley of pestilence and they have been waiting years for someone to care?
My attention is on Mnemosyne the mother goddess of muses – on the words floating in her river, and when I pray at all, and if at any time I do pray, it is to her that I pray – to the distiller of all mankind’s victories and sorrows, and I say Mother –
I am your son, and I am your song voice – your word man; I am your rapt listener and the grace of your virtues would be worthless if I were not in service to the cause of memory and to the teaching that it is through the act of remembering the past that the present lives.
If you wish to forget something then bring it to the river and let the waters of Mnemosyne wash over you, and let a poet remember love for you, and know that it will be tended for – that you and your memory can still live…even if it is, because of sorrow… separately.