Old Boy poem – A. Van Jordan poems

If one rainy night you find yourself
leaving a phone booth, and you meet a man
with a lavender umbrella, resist
your desire to follow him, to seek
shelter from the night in his solace.
Later, don’t fall victim to the Hypnotist’s
narcotic of clarity, which proves
a curare for the heart; her salve
is merely a bandage, under which memories
pulse. Resist the taste for something still
alive for your first meal; resist the craving
for the touch of a hand from your past.
We live some memories,
and some memories are planted. There’s
only so much space for the truth
and the fabrications to spread out
in one’s mind. When there’s no more
space, we grow desperate. You’ll ask
if practicing love for years in your mind,
prepares you for the moment,
if practicing to defend one’s life
is the same as living? You’ll
hole up, captive, in a hotel room
for fifteen years and learn to find
a man within you, which will prove
a painful introduction to the trance
into which you were born. Better
to stay under the spell of your guilt,
than to forget; you’ve already released
your pain onto the world; don’t believe
there’s some joy in forgetting.
There’s no joy in the struggle to forget.
And what appears as an endless verdant field,
only spreads across a building’s rooftop;
your peaceful sleep could be a fetal position,
which secures you in a suitcase in this field.
A bell rings, and you fall out of this luggage
like clothes you no longer fit. Now what to do?
You remember when you were the man
who fit those clothes, but you’ve forgotten this
world. Even forgotten scenes from your life,
leave shadows of the memory,
haunting your spirit
until, within a moment’s glance,
strangers passing you on the street,
observe history in your eyes. Experience
lingers through acts of forgetting,
small acts of love or trauma
falling from the same place. Whether
memory comes in the form of a stone
or a grain of sand, they both sink in water.
A tongue—even if it were, say, sworn
to secrecy; or if it were cut from one’s mouth;
yes, even without a mouth to envelop
its truth—the tongue continues to confess.

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Poems in English 

• Английская поэзия. Редьярд Киплинг. «Расходы и поступления». (1919-1926). 9. Джейн выходит замуж. Rudyard Kipling. «Debits and Credits». (1919-1926). 9. Jane’s Marriage by Poetry In English
• Английская поэзия. Уильям Шекспир. Сонет 139. Оправдывать меня не принуждай. William Shakespeare. Sonnet 139. o call not me to justify the wrong by Poetry In English
• Английская поэзия. Перси Биши Шелли. К Мэри Шелли. Percy Bysshe Shelley. To Mary Shelley by Poetry In English
• Английская поэзия. Айзек Розенберг. Дочери войны. Isaac Rosenberg. Daughters of War by Poetry In English
• Английская поэзия. Перси Биши Шелли. Тень Ада. Percy Bysshe Shelley. Satan Broken Loose by Poetry In English
• Английская поэзия. Редьярд Киплинг. «Эпитафии Войны». 1914-1918. 1. Убытки поровну. Rudyard Kipling. «Epitaphs of the War». 1914-1918. 1. «Equality of Sacrifice» by Poetry In English
• Lament For The Makers By William Dunbar by William Dunbar
• Done is a battle by William Dunbar by William Dunbar
• Robert Burns: Inscription To Miss Jessy Lewars: On a copy of the Scots Musical Museum, in four volumes, presented to her by Burns. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: O Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: A Health To Ane I Loe Dear: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: O Lay Thy Loof In Mine, Lass: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars: On Her Recovery by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars: Jessie’s illness by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars: The Menagerie by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars: The Toast by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Trogger.: Heron Election Ballad, No. IV. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: A Lass Wi’ A Tocher: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epistle To Colonel De Peyster: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Dean Of Faculty: A New Ballad by Robert Burns

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