Childhood Imagination Sows Seeds of Future Brilliance
How I love it when Reena Prasad graces the Plum Tree Blog with her delicate, lace-wing words, weaving her tales of intellect and soul in a sacred marriage. Thank you, Reena. We are blessed to have you here.
“These fragments I have shored against my ruins”
When we are children we seldom think of the future. This innocence leaves us free to enjoy ourselves as few adults can. The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind.”
― Patrick Rothfuss
Today I recall the poems which almost every poet writes at some point of time whatever may be his/ her style of writing i.e. poems which evoke nostalgia. They contain a nugget of happy /sad moments or an experience from the past locked up securely within. I revel in the discovery of a brief moment or some secrets that were never spoken aloud. A picture of life in other part of the world emerges and some lost years or relationships that have faded away, find another lease of life. If I could describe these kinds of poems, I would say these are:
Unruly feathers sticking out
from a duck’s back
caught in the wild weeds of memory
and smoothened back into place
The tumultuous flow of time
briefly paused from slipping
by a slender image
a slight strum of a string
a familiar voice loved perhaps
sticking to the wall within the heart
saying ‘No’ to the murky stream of obscurity
Strange that the things which seem loud and huge in childhood continue to occupy giant bytes of memory space even in adulthood like the remembrance of the “boom of the tingling strings” The ‘Piano” is a masterpiece by the master D.H. L. The tone in this simple lyric of three stanzas is intimate and creates an old fashioned atmosphere with the words ‘hymns’ and ‘parlor’. Listen as the music of this poem matches the music of the piano which is its central theme.
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.