[Jim Moonan]

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rv.4
The Memory Forgets

for Joe Rose

1.

Fall is a good way to go. We skipped a wake and, after some time passed, gathered to say goodbye to him. Cliches were the language of the day. A handful of children played in the yard. I said a few words. At the end guests were given a rose to take home. I placed mine in a cut-glass vase. Days passed and the tight-lipped bud loosened to become a silky red labyrinth of pouty petals. Then a petal fell. I did not see it fall, only found it on the table. I left it alone, not wanting to interfere. Day after day I watched it grow limp, top-heavy on its stump of a stem. The fringes of the petals shriveled and darkened like dried blood does in the corners of the mouth. Memories meshed into a fading bouquet of thoughts unbound by time. The clouded water in the vase vanished. The rose burned into oblivion. I kissed it. Threw it away.

my cut rose
drinks cloudy water
exhausts itself.


2.

I sometimes tuck things inside books: a holy card, a scrap of poetry, a photograph, a flower. Things I’ve no intention of ever retrieving. It becomes them. There’s a finality in that. Long ago I placed a long-stemmed rose between the pages of The Complete Illustrated Shakespeare. I could not remember what its significance was. (When the memory is lost, is the meaning lost too?) Then the day of the purge came. I was moving out and getting rid of books I no longer wanted. Ones I never read, ones that had lost their appeal, textbooks that gathered dust for decades on shelves. I packed them in boxes, brought them to the library after-hours, and left them near the door. Today, years later, I suddenly recall it. The rose, not the book. I kissed it. The memory not the rose. Felt the prick of its thorn. Bled rose blood.

my darkened rose
pressed, ghostly,
escapes between lines.



EDITS

2. was:
I sometimes tuck things inside books. A holy card, a scrap of poetry, a photograph, a flower. Then the day of the purge came. I was moving and ridding myself of things I could live without. Books I no longer wanted, books I never read, textbooks that gathered dust for decades on shelves. Between the pages of one book, The Complete Illustrated Shakespeare, I had long ago placed a long stem rose. I could not remember where the rose had come from. I packed the books in boxes, brought them to the library after-hours and left them near the door. Today, years later, I suddenly recall it. The rose, not the book. I kissed it. The memory not the rose. Felt the prick of its thorn. Bled rose blood.





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rv. 3

Two Roses

In memory of Joe Rose

1.
Not long ago we gathered and said goodbye to him. Roses were given to those who came to celebrate that day. Today I found a single petal had dropped from the rose I had placed in a small cut-glass vase. I had not seen it fall. Only found it lying there. I left it alone, not wanting to interfere. I watched it for days and weeks slowly slump, top-heavy on its stump of a stem. The tight-lipped kiss of the closed bud opened to become a labyrinth of lips that slowly went slack-jawed, loose as old age. The edges of the petals shriveled as if singed by a flame, darkening like dried blood does in the corners of the mouth. Stem, flower, youth, age, beauty, truth, water, fire — all meshed into a bouquet bound by time and memory. The water in the vase had vanished. The the rose burned into my memory. I kissed it. Threw it away.

...Cut red rose in water
...sucking dry every drop
...exhausts itself.


2.
Long ago I put a long-stemmed rose inside an illustrated volume of Shakespeare’s complete works. I don’t remember where it came from. The rose. It may have been from my wedding. It stayed for decades on a sagging pine board shelf. I rarely took the book down to read it. The sheer bulk and weight of it was too much to handle. I left it alone. It became nothing more than a vessel to keep the pressed rose flattened between pages of literary perfection. A few year back, when I was moving to a new place and cleaning house of things long left untouched, I gave the book away to charity. I absent-mindedly left the rose in it. I think about it from time to time. The rose, not the book. I kissed it. The memory not the rose. Felt the prick of its thorn. Bled rose blood.

...Pressed into darkness
...compressed, colorless, confined,
...it escapes between lines.



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rv. 2

Two Roses

1.
Today I found a single petal had dropped from the funereal rose I had placed in a small cut-glass vase. I had not seen it fall. Only found it lying there. I left it alone, not wanting to interfere. I watched for days and weeks the cut rose slowly slump, top-heavy on its stump of a stem. Over time, the tight-lipped kiss of the closed bud opened to become a labyrinth of red lustrous lips that slowly went slack, loose-lipped as old age, shriveled, singed at the edges, darkening like dried blood does in the corners of the mouth. Stem, flower, youth, age, beauty, truth, water, fire — all meshed to become a bouquet of thoughts. The water in the vase slowly vanished. The quietus of the rose burned into my memory. I kissed it. I threw it away. The rose.

...Cut red rose in water
...sucking dry every drop
...extinguishes itself.


2.
When I was much younger, I put a long-stemmed rose inside a complete illustrated volume of Shakespeare’s works. I don’t remember where it came from. The rose. It may have been from my wedding. It was a long time ago. It stayed for decades on a sagging shelf. I rarely took the book down to read it. The sheer bulk and weight of it was too much to handle. It became nothing more than a place to keep the pressed rose flattened between pages of Shakespeare. Not long ago, when I was moving to a new place, something compelled me to give the book away to charity. I think about it from time to time. The rose, not the book. I kissed it. Felt the prick of its thorn. Bled rose blood.

...Pressed into darkness
...compressed, colorless, confined,
...it escapes between lines.


EDITS
was: "stem sucking dry every drop"
was: "everything escapes between the lines"


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rv 1

Two Roses

Today I found a single petal had dropped from the rose I had cut weeks ago and placed in a small cut-glass vase in the center of my round glass table. I had not seen it fall. Only found it lying there on the table below. I left it there, not wanting to interfere.
I watched over days and weeks the cut rose slowly slump, top-heavy on its stump of a stem. Over time, the tight fist of a bloom had opened to become a labyrinth of red lustrous lips that then began to fall apart as if pouting, then shriveled at the edges, darkening like dried blood does in the corners of the mouth. Stem and flower, life and death, youth and age, beauty and truth, water and fire meshed to become a bouquet. The water that filled the cut glass vase slowly vanished. The quietus of the rose burned into my memory. I kissed it. I threw it away. The rose.

Red rose in water
stem sucking dry every drop
extinguishes itself.

I kept a rose on a long stem flattened inside a complete volume of Shakespeare’s works. I don’t remember where it came from. The rose. It may have been from my wedding. It’s been a long time. It stayed for decades on a sagging shelf. It was a fixture in my life. I rarely took it down to read it. The sheer bulk and weight of it was too much to handle. It became nothing more than a place to keep the long-stemmed rose. Not long ago, when I was moving to a new place, something compelled me to give the book away to charity. I let it go, along with other things that suddenly seemed disposable. I think about it from time to time. The rose, not the book. I kissed the memory. Felt the prick of its thorn. Bled red rose blood.

Condensed in darkness
compressed, colorless, confined,
everything escapes between the lines



EDITS

LI was: "the rose I had cut to be on a short stem weeks ago"
Various grammatical changes to the opening prose poem.


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ORIGINAL
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While Paula's haibun sits in detention, I grew one of my own that may or may not be a true haibun. My petals are beginning to drop. It's too late to concern myself too much with form…


I Looked For A Long Time

Today a single petal dropped from a single rose I had cut weeks ago to be on a short stem and put in a small glass vase of water on my table. I did not see it drop. Only found it lying there on the table below. I left it there, not wanting to interfere. I have watched for weeks the cut rose slowly droop in the glass vase, and always come away with teeming thoughts of life and death and the connection between the two. I watched as the tight fist of a bloom opened to become a labyrinth of impossibly red lustrous petals that turned a deeper, impossible red and begin, over time, to fray at the edges like dried blood does in the corners of a mouth. I watched the water disappear. It burned into my memory. I kissed it. I threw it away.

Fire in the water
sucking dry every drop
extinguishes itself.

I once kept for decades a rose on a long stem flattened to be a keepsake bookmark in the middle of a complete volume of Shakespeare’s works. I don’t remember where it came from. The rose. It may have been from my wedding. It’s been a long time. Once, when I was moving to a new place, something came over me and I gave the book away with the rose inside, along with dozens of other books I abandoned. I think about it from time to time. The rose, not the book. I kiss the memory; am pricked by its thorn; bleed.

Condensed in darkness
colorless, odorless, gone
nothing lasts forever

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