Free Time
There was that point
on the space-time continuum
when you were still here,
life lingering within you.
And then there was a point
at which not; your breath stopped
silent, unheard, its movement unseen
for the rest of time always....
But between those moments,
those two separate, individual points,
was the transition: uncapturable
in earth or air, light or darkness.
That is one mystery. The other
is not a mystery to me, only to physics
and physicists. That is because
it happens in a non-physical realm.
I refer of course to those points
in space and time — anyone might
perceive my physical form
solid in space and time right then —
when I go back again, to any
of the moments we had together,
and stay there, as they unfold —
moving forward for sure (said to be
time’s only direction) but also
sometimes reeling back, re-spooling.
My maternal uncle, my stepfather,
my second husband: all of them
showed me how to fish. I can cast
again and again into the Stream of Time
(my birth father taught me to call it that)
and bring to the surface you, and me,
at any point, together. I can keep
those moments, feed on them,
or throw them back in the stream:
to hook and haul in again and again,
in no fixed chronological order.
They can take place at any place
where/when they did take place;
can happen then, there, here,
now, freely, anywhere, always ...
now, freely, anywhere, always ...
Written for April 2020, day 5: Space-Time, at 'imaginary garden with real toads – from a prompt where Bjorn discusses Physics, Space-time, Relativity, etc.
This is heartwrenchingly beautiful, Rosemary! Words aren't enough to describe just how palpable the emotions are in your words.
ReplyDeleteI like the way you have captured the space in between, Rosemary, by writing about the space either side of it – the space in which we grieve, ‘uncapturable in earth or air, light or darkness’, and remember. I also like the link between ‘sometimes reeling back, re-spooling’ and learning to fish.
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed this poem very much. The moment before death is difficult to explain.Some say it is the time the soul leaves the body. A very profound subject.It must be a very barren sterile existence where belief is based solely on tangible scientific evidence...shudder !
ReplyDeleteYes, it is that moment I had in mind – that infinitesimal space between breathing and no longer breathing. And, now that you mention it, I am certain it is the moment when the soul leaves!
DeleteOh I love what you've done with the prompt! These words
ReplyDelete"sometimes reeling back, re-spooling."
and the idea of that transition space....my husband hovered there for 48 hours after a six minute cardiac arrest seven years ago. He is a walking miracle .... with me here today and 100% cognitively okay. I prayed and prayed for him to stay on this side of the transition space. And I think your writing about the fishing is spot on and such an insightful way to write about a loved one who has died....we can reel them back in our minds...through photographs or just sitting quietly. This is just a wonderful write!
I love this..."stream of time" I am doing that very thing with my thoughts, but now I know what to call it. Thank you for writing this beautiful poem. I wish I had written it.
ReplyDeleteIt was really the title of a book I had when I was very young. The Stream of Time referred to the sweep of history; I guess my first acquaintance with metaphor, or the first that made an impression. I always felt it described time in general.
Deleteanyone might
ReplyDeleteperceive my physical form
solid in space and time right then —
when I go back again, to any
of the moments we had together,
and stay there, as they unfold —
I particularly love this part .... it speaks in a concrete way, without any defining examples, of just how inexplicable the process of "being" is - how memories and our perceptions co-exist, and surely, do they still for those who have passed? perhaps they must, because energy never dies - takes on different frequencies - so how are we to know if one gone before isn't actually remembering, existing in another way, foreign to those of us still on the earthly plane. And of course, our memories and collections of our experiences are notoriously unreliable. A scientific fact that has more recently been proven beyond neuroscience's initial expectations. So then, we ask, what is real?
I once had a friend who wisely looked at me and offered this tid-bit, when we were talking about something or other, and she chuckled and said "Patpat, reality is just a collective hunch in our experience."
Anyhow, what I enjoy about your poem Rosemary is how you've tried to expand upon the ideas of breath and death, the moment held in a heart-beat perhaps, just before, and during, and then, afterwards. And it's rather hard, when we have no true ways to shape and form these ideas, experiences. And then, you offer us so much more in the stanzas, shifting perspectives and points of view - and close off with some very defined experiences, memories that speak to the aching tone, the unspoken ... about how fragile, tenuous life is, how in the grander scheme, it's the slips of silvery threads, the exchanges, the teachings, the moments we are together and connect in these simple ways that shape us. And perhaps this is Life. The shaping and re-shaping of energy.
This is a lovely poem Rosemary, intimate and intricate.
Thank you for reading and appreciating it so well!
DeleteI am what's known as a psychic medium, so I believe I have plenty of evidence that those who have passed on do indeed still remember and think of us (even though that wasn't included in this poem).