While I am on the topic of forgetting and remembering experiences with star people tonight, I remembered some poems I had written years before I began consciously remembering and understanding that I was being "abducted." Now that I look at these poems, knowing what I know now, it's amazing. I used to meet my "imaginary friend" out in the back field when I was a child. Now I think it's pretty clear that he was something else. Here are two poems. "Memory" is written from my perspective as a child; it is the forgetting part. "The Directions of Memory" is written from the perspective of my older self; the remembering again part.
Memory
“You will forget me.”
“Never,” I tried to argue.
He just repeated himself.
“You will forget me.”
I just let him talk.
Stretched on the concrete platform
of an old windmill that long-since
let the waters underneath our land rest and gather,
we lay together, watching stars.
My four-year-old body was thin,
darkened by bare-foot summer days.
He was invisible—my “imaginary friend.”
But the matter didn’t really matter.
I was young.
I didn’t let things like that bother me then.
Being four years old,
having the stars and trees sing for me,
having him lie next to me, how could I have known
he would dissipate, and trees would become plants;
stars, the mere burning of dust and gas?
Grasping the vague outline of his hand,
I knew he was something like a star.
I clenched air as if his life depended on it.
“You will forget me,” his voice lingered in the treetops.
I whispered back, “Then I’ll just remember you again.”
Pleased with my simple logic, I let him go,
and walked, humming all the way to the house.
The Directions of Memory
Resting on the concrete slab
of an old windmill that long-since
let the waters underneath our land
rest and brood, I lay, watching stars,
swaddling myself in an old shawl,
thin and light as my bones.
Wind nudged at treetops
leaning over me like parents
peeking over the edge of a crib.
I had scratched on this block
a stick figure of my imaginary friend
when I was four years old.
I traced the uncomplicated lines,
the skin on the back of my hand
now translucent as a porcelain tea cup,
blue veins wanting to branch beyond
the worn-out ends of my fingertips.
From here I could point my finger at Orion
emerging from the clouds, like a long lost memory,
build an infinitesimal bridge of dendrites,
a ladder on which angels could descend,
or I could rise.
Dissipating in the whispers of leaves,
my skin transfigures into stars.
Some Poetry
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Re: Some Poetry
Hi Manhattan,
Your poetry is very nice. It's amazing looking back at it now, isn't it? I am amazed when I look back at things I wrote years ago. I've actually been recording my dreams since I was 19, so I have all those dream journals to look back on.
I think it would be great to draw a picture to go with your poetry or even make a small book out of it with illustrations.![Very Happy :D](./images/smilies/icon_e_biggrin.gif)
Your poetry is very nice. It's amazing looking back at it now, isn't it? I am amazed when I look back at things I wrote years ago. I've actually been recording my dreams since I was 19, so I have all those dream journals to look back on.
I think it would be great to draw a picture to go with your poetry or even make a small book out of it with illustrations.
![Very Happy :D](./images/smilies/icon_e_biggrin.gif)
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