Wednesday, September 13, 2006
cooled like a jug of coffee
left
f-o-r-g-o-t-t-e-n
on the kitchen table
on a wintery interlude between afternoon and evening.
sunlight through the window
accosts the poor glass pitcher,
throwing light at it in spotches and splashes,
giving it no rest, no reprieve, no place to hide.
the coffee in it, on a contrary, not warmed at all.
murky brown liquid of unknown depth
silent in its 'entrappement' of sorts,
forced to face the light,
yet not allowed to absorb the heat-
the thing it once had and now lost.
like all things else,
heat subsides.
it's useless to mourn for something lost.
yearn for something irretrievable, irreconcible
because all you're left with is a memory,
a vague memory of feeling it
and then it's gone.
This line really spoke to me during english prose today...
' Tenderness was all that could be given, and, like most of the self-labelled human emtions, it meant nothing when put alongside the intensity of their experience.'
- from James Jones, The Thin Red Line (1963)
un moment à se rappeler
. a moment to remember.
