Vespers
Vespers
I can not remember the sound of our mother's voice,
or even how she looked, the memory of her slipped
from my mind long ago, like a theif
disappearing into the night,
pilfered heirlooms tucked neatly in his pockets.
When I was a boy I would pretend to sleep, listening
to your whispered prayers, unraveling tone, pitch, timbre,
from the chord of your voice, searching
for strands of her sound
I could weave into a memory that would never leave.
Is it so strange then, that every angel that perched
along the branches of Bible verses taking root in my mind
shared your silhouette? That each
haloed head bowed to reveal
the sweet lunette of your neck? That my mind would turn
the feathery turnings of wings into the feathery turnings
of your hair over my face as you leaned down to kiss
me goodnight? That when I woke from a nightmare
once and you were standing
at the side of my bed, the moonlight made a nimbus around you?
I can not remember the sound of our mother's voice,
or even how she looked, the memory of her slipped
from my mind long ago, like a theif
disappearing into the night,
pilfered heirlooms tucked neatly in his pockets.
When I was a boy I would pretend to sleep, listening
to your whispered prayers, unraveling tone, pitch, timbre,
from the chord of your voice, searching
for strands of her sound
I could weave into a memory that would never leave.
Is it so strange then, that every angel that perched
along the branches of Bible verses taking root in my mind
shared your silhouette? That each
haloed head bowed to reveal
the sweet lunette of your neck? That my mind would turn
the feathery turnings of wings into the feathery turnings
of your hair over my face as you leaned down to kiss
me goodnight? That when I woke from a nightmare
once and you were standing
at the side of my bed, the moonlight made a nimbus around you?
posted by Sovereign Syre at 6:48 PM
7 Comments:
I found this one really beautiful.
This part especially resonated with me:
from the chord of your voice, searching
for strands of her sound
I could weave into a memory that would never leave.
A close friend of mine passed away a few years ago-- and a couple of months ago I had a vivid dream concerning him. The image of him was perfect...just as I remembered. But I remember terribly wanting to hear his voice. I kept asking him to speak, but whenever he did the crowded room we were in grew loud and I couldn't hear him. Until finally the crowd left and he opened his mouth to tell me something...but the only sound that came out was that of my alarm clock. I knew I was about to leave his presence-- that familiar sound would pull me from that world into this one...which it did. I watched him dissolve and transform into the edge of my pillow.
That day I meditated on the voice of people, and how fragile our memories are of them. We typically have photographs, but recordings are rare. The voice is like a fingerprint...unique ripples of sound waves...and our vocal chords are the subtle breaking point where our subjective reality cracks into and alters the objective universe.
Thank you for sharing.
I've been experimenting with writing poems from a perspective that isn't mine, and it's really freeing. I don't know why I was resistant to it for so long.
My mother's mother died when my mom was only six, and recently we were talking about it...she told me the hardest thing for her was not having a memory of her voice...and it really stuck with me. And also that my mother is a very morose person.
Wow--Impressive. Rest assured you're doing a very good job describing sensations you haven't necessarily had. Keep it up. The hair curling part has a wonderful dreamlike visual to it too.
Hmm...can you remember my voice? You got me thinking about vocal memory yesterday (obviously) and then oddly enough, I was going through my voicemail and you ended up talking to me for a minute...I didn't think you were still hiding in there.
Vaguely, I remember how the back of your neck feels though...skin like a baby! Oh and I remember laying next to on the floor listening to Dean screaming from his bedroom. Good times.
Brilliant as always love!
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