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.
