Monday, 4 December 2017

unfinished, unheard stories...

Reginald Southey
Lewis Carroll (1857) 

“do you remember how were we?
about how you ate and talked, munching and storytelling;
about how we discussed rain, the small burn on my hand;
about how we laughed at each other and argued fiercely;
                        no, nothing, they are seconds and minutes,
aren’t they just the past, faded memories, and washed away
to some dark corners; light now focuses on ego and motives;
don’t you remember that we were not like this?”

she sipped some water, he listened;
coloured, textured flesh; bones a little more single shaded,
rough and firm; thoughts and perspectives, where do they stick?
do they wear different shades, clothes shiny and rough as flesh?
or do they stand firm as they are and as they are made, white shades?
wait, but where do we feel how were we, in flesh, bone, skin or nerves?
we are prints of limited vision, gossips, talks, our silence and absences;
some of us flesh, some skeletons; inside all the layers when we breathe,
where do they fall, touch and make stories?

                           flesh, skeletons and breath,
                                           what do we see and choose?
                                                        what stories are made loud?



  1. where do we feel how we were? This is such an excellent question, and you have explored it so meaningfully in this poem. I love it.

  2. I feel this deeply... like meeting with old friends, we never know what we will find when we sift through the memories...

  3. bones a little more single shaded -

    what a absolutely stellar line - for me, this is the key of this piece - everything revolves around this gorgeous idea - what'as asked before, what follows, and the ending -

    very thoughtful direction you've taken with this prompt - which is wonderful - intimate and yet, it speaks to a broader audience

  4. I agree with Kerry, what an excellent question to ask. Memories can soothe or torture. It is the why, when, and where of why we sit among bones that is the most telling.

  5. Innocent and naive. And I might say "vulnerable". Memories of the days before we became corrupted are precious. You invoked them well here and moved on to power motives. Perhaps in old age we can go back.
    Sereeja, I hadn't run into your work since OSI folded. I am glad you are still writing.

  6. We dont always get to choose our story. Sometimes it is chosen for us. Sometimes our decisions rewrite our stories. I think one of the greatest acts of love is listening, desiring to know someone elses story. To know them. Not the superficial.

    Which ones do we choose to share? Why? What makes us up? How do our stories intertwine?
    Enjoyed all your pondering sreeja.


  7. You pose a difficult question, one that (I think) will illicit different responses dependent on how our bones are/were made, and what we lay as memories there.

    On a personal level, memories of the way ‘we were’ (hubs&me) are shaded in the grey of today, but nevertheless this sadness evokes well-remembered happier times and keeps the spirit (of him) alive, lost as he may be, in this present.

    I don’t believe I chose to remember these happier times, deliberately lay them as memory – they were caught for me in that that is good.

    They are stories that have the ability to make themselves loud.

    Anna :o]

  8. This is so beautifully deep! I feel we don't get to choose the kind of life we live.. rather we are put in certain situations which we help shape the person we are meant to be.

  9. I enjoyed all the perspectives...preciuos comments...maybe our memories and us are all a mixture of circumstances, what we actually are and what others think we are....

    We are what we are at the deepest point of our existence and not many will know that....I think so...

    Thank you so much for stopping by and appreciating...!!