Sometimes we remember so hard
Sometime back a friend (who runs the sun-touched newsletter The Nook) shared a beautiful poem - ‘Everything we do’ by Peter Meinke. And it resonated so beautifully inside me, that inexorably I started to compose a poem with the same cadence. Maybe not as beautiful as ‘Everything we do"‘, but an attempt nevertheless!
I give you my poem first - ‘Sometimes we remember so hard’ - followed by ‘Everything we do’. I hope you love both!
Sometimes we remember so hard
Sometimes we remember so hard it pains
as we think of those who have now moved
to a suburb in US or a small village in Kerala,
places whose names we can't even pronounce,
places so far that all memories of us
lose their way trying to get to them.
.
And we become accountants and engineers,
dull pursuits which make us rich,
and stay in penthouses with light all around
but which just do not compare to the places
they are in, making us wonder if this is where
we wanted our lives to end - in darkness
in the brightest place?
.
And we dream of kisses whilst sitting on tombstones,
and holding hands while sprinklers sprayed water.
Memories suddenly seem like realities,
and we come back as our old selves -
careless, carefree, a better version
for thinking of now as forever,
for being foolish but immeasurably happy.
.
And then we think maybe
she will call again,
from a number we do not know but which
we unthinkingly pick on the first ring.
And she would say - I read your poem
in a magazine at the airport lounge -
was that poem for me?
.
And even whilst lying beside someone
we love for life, we start to cry
as we look at the wasteland of our lives,
and our tears keep falling on the pillow
as we realize how inadequate
everything we hold dear really feels.
Everything we do by Peter Meinke
Everything we do is for our first loves
whom we have lost irrevocably
who have married insurance salesmen
and moved to Topeka
and never think of us at all.
.
We fly planes & design buildings
and write poems
that all say Sally I love you
I’ll never love anyone else
Why didn’t you know I was going to be a poet?
.
The walks to school, the kisses in the snow
gather as we dream backwards, sweetness with age:
our legs are young again, our voices
strong and happy, we’re not afraid.
We don’t know enough to be afraid.
.
And now
we hold (hidden, hopeless) the hope
that some day
she may fly in our plane
enter our building read our poem
.
And that night, deep in her dream,
Sally, far in darkness, in Topeka,
with the salesman lying beside her,
will cry out
our unfamiliar name.
Some more love poetry from my podcast ‘Uncut Poetry’!
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This is lovely. Dare I say better than the original? And thank you for the mention, Sunil. ❣️