Forgotten Things
I try to imagine how it might feel being a broken wine glass trying to remember whether it held a red or a white when it was whole or to be a puff of smoke that disappears in seconds, existing for only a few moments, wondering whose lips it had passed through or to be a dream that never ends, to go places without moving, voyaging in my body, feeling just how filled with emptiness one can really be I try to imagine Future's jealousy of a Present that never ends, of a hope to touch, just once, the waters of the sea, to think imaginatively about the sun or moon or stars. I feel bad for forgotten things. Remembering hurts more.
Oh my god, Paul, this is a wildly beautiful and insightful poem. I just read it twice aloud and I'm a little taken aback. This is what poetry is for. Each stanza is packed with so much wisdom and beauty.
The first two stanzas feel just like being human, I think, if we adjust our perception of time. Between the very mysterious experiences of birth and death, we live a life much like that puff of smoke, a pattern of matter and energy making its way through reality, not really sure why it's here or what it even really is. Ephemeral and constantly changing, that's for sure.
The third stanza almost sounds like the Universe, or God him/her/itself, living an endless dream convincing itself it's made of separate individual consciousnesses (humans and other animals, at the very least). Your lines about being filled with emptiness perfectly capture this for me. What is it I/Me/Us/We are trying to do here? A grand experiment in pain, ego, and sheer joy? I hope we learn something from it. I think being creative is a wonderful step in that direction. Science too, of course. And even the very painful and hateful human endeavors. I hope we learn from them.
Then you name and capitalize the different aspects of time, and I think you're absolutely right. Future is just another dream Present is having. Present gets to have all the real sensory fun.
The last two lines wrap it up gorgeously. It is in our memory that our pain resides. A grapevine doesn't seem to feel most of this existential pain, for lack of a memory like ours. But perhaps that's just being too anthropocentric. A vine's scars tell many tales, hold many memories indeed. Ways it's had to wrap itself around rocks and trees, cut and bitten here and there, then hardened into wood in the very shape of its injuries, still present and alive, for now.
Thank you for restacking, @Chen Rafaeli