I’ve been thinking a lot about memory this week. How we remember. What we remember. Why we remember some things but not others.
And in process, I remembered a poem I wrote some time back about my own expereince of memory, especially my experiencing the past as text.
In it, I allude to Anna Ahkmatova, the celebrated Russian poet who was so highly censored under Stalin , she resorted to writing her poems on cigarette paper, memorizing them with a friend (friend’s memory as carbon copy), and smoking the evidence of her crime against the Soviet State.
Here, I also allude to the texture of memory and the texture of texts themselves. It’s interesting to me that in English the word “text” is inherent in our word for “texture”–a sematic given.
Censorship
The past comes
back in bits
colorless as glass
ground almost to dust
so that any sense of shape
seems irretrievable
The taste of it lingers
in my mouth like
something burnt
marshmallow
toast
skin
Dream of Ahkmatova
stanzas scratched out
on cigarette paper
during Leningrad winters
memorized by a friend
burnt in ashtrays
saying what we don’t
(hear)
only know
like skin
(Something to be touched)
Text (ure)
is everything
(The formatting of the poem is not correct, but I could not get WordPress to recreate my Word document without changes in spacing. I finally decided to pass the poem along regardlesss, hoping its message would speak to you despite the irregularities.)
The message speaks.
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I’m so glad that it does!
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What a strong feelings expressed in these lines…wow!
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Yes, the emotions are strong, always strong, too strong sometimes. Thanks, Charles.
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This is beautiful, Kathy, and sad…I can’t imagine writing poetry on cigarette papers!
Hugs,
Wendy
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I know. It’s hard to imagine wanting and needing to create that deperately, that innately. I’ve been almost there but not quite. I only know the urge.
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Kathy–
what a lovely piece…the formatting brought to mind cigarette smoke–gone that fast…
like memory…
your words always leave something behind…so I know you’ve been there.
beautiful.
jane
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I love your observation about the cigarette smoke. Wow, that’s striking, Jane. Thank you———-
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Lovely poem. Even if, as you say, the spacing is off, the poem represented your thoughts well.
What a sad but interesting fact about Ahkmatova. I’m consistently inspired by the lengths people will go to to create because they can’t help themselves. That’s art.
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Absolutely, Maura. This is truly an instance where creative urgency spills over into imperative. Art as essential as air!
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Jane said it perfectly: Your words always leave something behind, so I know you’ve been there. Re Ahkmatova: I feel that artists don’t so much choose to create as they are compelled to.
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Yes, artists are compelled. They can’t not do what they do. The urgency of Ahkatova’s work amazes me. For her art had to be.
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Format aside….it is still a wonderful poem no matter how it is presented. Thanks! 🙂
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Thanks, Mark. Glad you appreciated the poem. By the way, congratulations on your million hits! That’s fabulous!
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