my eyes
grow heavy
remembering
the words
the faces
long gone
from view
memory
on memory and cities: from Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino
And Polo said: “Every time I describe a city I am saying something about Venice.”
“When I ask about other cities, I want to hear about them. And about Venice, when I ask you about Venice.”
“To distinguish the other cities’ qualities, I must speak of a first city that remains implicit. For me it is Venice.”
“You should then begin each tale of your travels from the departure, describing Venice as it is, all of it, not omitting anything you remember of it.”
The lake’s surface was barely wrinkled; the copper reflection of the ancient palace of the Sung was shattered into sparkling glints like floating leaves.
“Memory’s images, once they are fixed in words, are erased,” Polo said. “Perhaps I am afraid of losing Venice all at once, if I speak of it. Or perhaps, speaking of other cities, I have already lost it, little by little.”
translated by William Weaver
the little things
the little things stay
like a tug
on the old heart strings
the body will sag
remembering what lingers
never quite able
to forget
just yet
the wind blows
from the east
the sun shines
in my eyes
alone on the balcony
except for the cat
lounging at my feet
in my head
that lyric
heard years ago
in a bar
in Amsterdam
only a fool would break
his own heart
a glass held loosely
in my hand
hoping not to drink
just yet
faces oh faces
I see faces
more often than not
in other faces
it is as if
the people I know/knew
are here in people I pass
on the street in the market on the metro
these constant reminders
of who filtered through my life
could be disconcerting
if I wasn’t so used to it
there’s Alex reading a book
oh and Carl in the corner
staring out at sea
and Kathy on the bus
sitting next to the old man
who looks a bit like Albert
and there’s Vic
talking to that girl
whose name you can’t quite remember
Marion or Madeline
or something like that
the one who lived up the coast
from you in Malibu
who fell asleep
on the floor
at that reunion
at Joan Barnett’s
when Billy was showing us all
he could be sensitive
and that one there
she looks like that assistant producer
who took you for drinks
at the Brown Derby
something Kessler
her father was a poet
read at the bookstore
and who’s that there
in the grocery store
oops, not her
look away
too much memory there
too much for one day
faces oh faces
staring back at me
and time
is in present continuous
just like you hoped
it wouldn’t be
always there
I see you
even when
I don’t see you
eyes open closed
awake asleep
you
always
there
that picture
she rose naked
from the bed
the only light
a candle flickering
and there
that picture
burned forever
in my mind
only because
falling in love
with an actress
in a film
only because
she reminds me
of you
on receiving a notice for another occasion for mourning: the fog of memory
they go
those names
from the past
their faces fade
the sound of their voices
those smiles laughs
a frown or two
all lost in the fog
of memory
like the moon
you would appear
in dreams
like the moon
always beautiful
but distant
leaving me
trickling blood inside
and as I rise
from sleep
the moon fading
from sight
like your ghost
into memory
of what was
is still
Leonard Durso 