In lieu of new thoughts, a poem

I’ve been neglectful of my blog, but I have a good excuse.  I knocked out the first draft of Nothing Lasting, and I’ve reached the halfway point in a new novella titled “Brother’s Keeper.” I have a swiftly approaching deadline for the novella, so my blog will probably be quiet for another few weeks.

In the mean time, in lieu of any new thoughts or profound nuggets of self-discovery, I leave you with this poem.  I’ve been thinking a lot about nostalgia lately.  Not actual nostalgic moments from my life, but the impact nostalgia has on people.  I’ve been an outside observer during this process, as I generally am in my life.  My conclusion?  Nostalgia is a cold, toxic feeling disguised as a warm one.  It’s the deep cold that reaches your core during the final moments of hypothermia.

 

As the Song Plays

Its notes hew to a false memory

a moment cherished in retrospect

sanitized, blemish-free

perfect, among all the gray matter dross;

a fool’s fantasy given breadth and weight

by an endlessly regressive people

brooding a future never lived

as it obsesses on the yesterday

the song’s chorus

imbues all honest recollection

with a gilt-edged sanguinity

recalling the moment, that bright

memorable moment

when the stars aligned,

when the chaos settled as hazed dust

trapped in the summer sun, warming

the air of a childhood bedroom.

one chorus, one single bar of that contagion

brings back everything,

the very essence of its capture;

an incorrigible youth, a first kiss

a style, an era, a time before matter

a time before any of this,

a time that never was.

the hooks, beats and rhymes

harass and cajole, tormenting

a reaction of memory, of

catchy dances

once mimicked before mirrors

behind closed doors or

among select friends

now forgotten, but for those moments

shared without error, fault or embarrassment

of sublime innocence

scribed immemorial upon the brain.

nostalgia that batters any would-be thinker

with a single secular image

that corrupts an honest accounting

of who they were

Memory and nostalgia, gracing

an echoed path; one hewing straight,

the other true.

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About glenkrisch

Writer, freelance editor, runner, family man, wanna-be farmer, neo-luddite
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