Terrible to love the lovely so,
To count your own years, to say "I'm old,"
- Han Shan, "Cold Mountain Buddhas"



Nocturne

And one morning he realizes that he cannot remember
Which face and body it was giving shape to the dream
Of the night before; whether it was dream or memory
That had risen in him, raised him into the old passion
In which he was young again and sliding slowly into it

Holding him hard and tightening around him, in him,
Pulling from him a last held breath that he imagined
Must be something like dying, a soft slipping away.
But the young cannot imagine death, nor old age;
How he dreams each night and wakes to dead desire.




Poetry by countryfog
Read 610 times
star mini Editors' choice
Written on 2010-11-03 at 16:49

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vladimir todor turmanev
Wow! Your mastery of the language is wonderful. I was able to experience several different emotions while reading this.
2010-11-20


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
You've caught me... I'm living your poem!
Frankly its not that bad; fun actually, when dream and memories become indistinguishable from one another. It took a while to get past the fear of it and enjoy the the process.

You have created a wonderful piece here; a snap shot of the continuum of life.

Thanks for sharing this.

Joe
2010-11-10


Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
This text has been chosen to be featured on the front page of PoetBay. Thank you for posting it on our poetry web site.
2010-11-09



I wonder if the connection between passion and youth is overblown. Youth and innocence, youth and idiocy, youth and spontaneity, youth and infatuation, all those—certainly. Passion may defy age. I hope so.

No denying the sense of slipping away. Though, slipping toward something as well. Lots of debate on what that something is. Some seem pretty sure about.
2010-11-05