there
a flea market
with tables full
of memories
for sale
memories
too few walls
she complained
of too many pictures
on the walls
frozen moments
enshrined
to keep me
company
here 5000 miles
away in time
and I
regretting too few walls
surrounding me
a phoenix: my Easter poem
I wish I were
a phoenix
and could rise
again
to be at that table
among those people
having that holiday dinner
once more
of whiskey & sadness: for Frank
it comes in waves
this sadness
that overwhelms him
these tears that flow
two rivers from his eyes
irrigating his cheeks
draining into his mouth
these bitter tears
that whiskey
his old friend
has long since stopped
bringing comfort
or joy
missing you: for JEP
still adrift
in memory
after your visit
in my dreams
once again
drinking bitter coffee
listening to old songs
from those wild begone days
and missing
yes missing
you
old friend
you
away now
there’s cereal floating
in the bowl
coffee cooling
in the cup
a letter unfinished
on the screen
and my thoughts tumbling
in my mind
so far away
away now
from where I used to be
2:50am in Moda: wherever I am
morning noon night
those faces
just won’t let me be
and sleep
once a friend
no longer lives
wherever I am
what was yesterday: for Marion Gittleman
a note
in my inbox
brings memories
of dark eyes
of mystery
then as now
and names
crop up
of crazy times
knowing how to laugh
as if time
was on our side
ah youth
so quickly gone
and now the slow fade
to what awaits
tomorrow
warmed by what was
yesterday
in dreams: for Johnny
you come in dreams
so many nights
reminding me
of our life
together
blueberry pie
Fanner 50s
model planes
Fort Apache
the LIRR
museum trips
Saturday matinees
at the movies
the time we were thrown out
for cracking peanuts
in the shell
the floor littered
around our feet
your closet floor
White Castle
2am breakfasts
at the Golden Coach
your grin
when you had a winning hand
at poker
the boy scouts
Troop 150
those 5 mile hikes
to find potatoes
in a farmer’s field
building your fence
in the backyard
of your first home
the barbecues
Christmas morning
the shaving kit
for hot lather
you gave me
the year I had my beard
and the tears
in your eyes
when you said goodbye
and the tears
in my eyes
upon waking
dear brother
of mine
from Memories and Weeks by Pablo Neruda
II
The weeks creep past,
form clouds, lose themselves,
conceal themselves in the sky,
come to rest there
like light faded.
Time is long, Padro,
time is short, Rosa;
and the weeks, exact
in their roles, exhausted,
pile up like berries,
stop palpitating.
Till one day, the wind,
rumorous, unaware,
opens them, stretches them,
beats them, and now
they mount like tattered
flags which return
to the lost homeland.
That is how memories are.
translated by Alastair Reid
Leonard Durso 