Teeth, Hammer, Blooms

 

I read poems of past love, lost love –

and remind myself: no love is ever

really lost, or past. But so many

varieties! Some are sweet-smelling,

pretty while they last, but lasting

no longer than ephemeral blooms.

Still I think fondly back on their

kindly delights. Memory preserves,

even if I seldom return to them now

to remind myself of that sweet scent,

that simple, delectable taste.

Others are like crashing hammers

tearing down walls, opening up

separateness into huge, inclusive 

vistas of possibility, expansions 

ready to be enriched with detail,

then further expanded, further filled. 

Eventually, though, there is nowhere 

further to go without a fading 

into the amorphous. After all, 

a building without fixed edges
becomes vague, collapses to nothingness.

I dwell longest on those loves that satisfy 

like good food: you can get your teeth

solidly into them; the taste remains

on your tongue; the memory rises at will

to your recollecting palate. They fed you,

nourished, sustained. Perhaps, if

there was an end (there is always an end

sooner or later, even if it’s not until death),

you can still return years later and feel

that old enrichment renewed – that old

groundedness which is the best enchantment.

Written for Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #232, where we are asked to include in a piece of writing the three words I have used in the title of this poem. I am also inspired by reflecting on a couple of the poems in Rajani Radhakrishnan's new book, No Way Home.