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 |  Blogging about all things poetry - starting with 30 days and 30 poems |
| March 21 How to Fold A Memory by Sabrina Benaim. This poem is from her book, Depression & Other Magic Tricks. This book is on loan to me from a co-worker. I had mentioned that I love going to hear slam poetry. I have managed to hear some really great poets perform their work at the Toronto Word On The Street Festival in September. I feel moved by the depth of their words. The co-worker who loaned me this book says this is one of her favourites. I have found reading the poems is good, but not as wonderful as listening to them... at least what I have read so far, but I really enjoyed the written and the spoken versions of this particular poem. I have included the words and a youtube link for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy. how to fold a memory. our brains remember the infliction of pain, be it physical, psychological, or emotional. we remember this hurt as means to avoid it in the future. Le't start at the beginning. I remember the shape of my hand held while in yours, like origami prayer, or flower petals returning home. i remember the rose petals falling from your fingers, leading from the doorway to the bedroom like a trail of breadcrumbs, or drops of blood. the scent of cinnamon, how you would sprinkle in into my coffee like fresh ground snowflakes. i can't cinnamon in my coffee without getting hungry for your laughter. i am hungry for your laughter, but my mouth tastes like the slow dissolve of the last i love you that refused to leave it. i remember the river, how we danced to the sound of it rushing, how you hummed Radiohead in harmony. that song haunts my house of cards, i wish it would collapse. i wish I could forget how i got here, how did I get here? i was carried in the teeth of your charm, or i walked. i marched. i was a turning cheek parade. i wasn't paying attention to the highlighted route, or there was no map, i got lost. with every journey back into our past, it becomes harder to find our way there. our brains are constantly rerouting the paths, rewriting what we remember. let's go to the end - it was by Little Sugar Creek, in the warm Kentucky breeze, we stood off unfolding in silence. in silence, it's hard o tell what the other person is thinking without looking them in the eyes. you would not look me in the eyes. so, by Little Sugar Creek, i let the warm breeze reach you in place of my origami hands. Ever since, i have been practicing forgetting. i've kissed the sky more times than i ever kissed you. i inhale purple haze in an attempt to smoke out the correlation between you and the scent of cinnamon. i drink as if i am trying to save the world from drowning. to get my memories so drunk, they might forget themselves by morning. but the trauma of daydreaming. the curse of muscle memory; my body keeps your secrets. how do I teach my mouth to shake out the reflection of your etch-a-sketch a smile? my wrist, to forget the swoops and arcs of your name? my ears, to hear songs without the ghost of you inside of them? worse, i cannot tell in these spasms of remembering, if the past tense keeps slipping in to my present, or if my present keeps slipping into the past. still, my body wears your fingerprints like a home address. i lose memories like baby teeth, but you are a stubborn molar, refusing to leave. we cannot control what we remember, but we can control how we remember. i shake cinnamon into my coffee, & i don't think of you. i write your name over and over so that it no longer has any meaning. i fold memories of you, craft them paper wings, in hopes one day they might drift into amnesia, & you might leave me, without a trace.    |
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