"Oh, The Places You'll Go"

 

. . . the title of Dr. Seuss' last (and perhaps best) book, completed shortly before he died.

 

 

 

I can tell you that the sun sets early but slowly

On Macchu Picchu, climbing the broken walls,

The little tilting courtyards closing in the dark,

And Neruda walking there, his declaiming voice

In the high air touching each place with a poem.

This was after Paris, crossing a narrow bridge

Over the Seine, young Jeanne Moreau reciting

A passage of Baudelaire, J'ai plus de souvenirs

que si j'avais mille ans,  as though she knew

I would understand, and only in that moment

I did, as she kissed me and walked into the night

And the lights of the Théâtre National Populaire.

Each bridge I cross reminds me of somewhere -

The Huangshui River where the path became

Two and I stood there undecided, looking up

At Cold Mountain to where I meant to follow

Han Shan, never finding him, but his poems

Were there on cliffs, the walls by temple gates.

And over the Yellow River, where Li Po folded

His poems and set them on the water, drifting

By where I watched him drown, drunk and

Trying to embrace the moon in the water.

The thing about bridges is not every one needs

To be crossed, walking with Jim Wright along

The Ohio so slow it seemed to stop, as he did,

Saying why would anyone go to Wheeling, W.V.

Once too I walked with Jeffers along the cliffs

Of Carmel, neither of us saying much, hearing

The high hawks circling above the sea-spray,

Knowing even then how it would all be lost.

Oh vivid memories of the life I've not lived.





Poetry by countryfog
Read 655 times
Written on 2013-03-07 at 21:47

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StillHoppin The PoetBay support member heart!
This flows through the mind like the water the bridges cross. It is beautiful - what vivid, rich description of the memories (of the life you've not lived). Exquisite!
2013-04-05


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Very nicely written, Fog. This is why we read (and also why we write, eh?).
2013-03-10



Exquisitely composed and beautiful. I suppose all of us are always on some sort of journey--whether our bodies are in motion or not. Even when we sleep, we're moving about in dreams.

William
2013-03-08



Well written, CF. This touched me, too. When I was young and choosing my career I debated whether it would be better to know the world, or know one place well. I chose the latter. There was no right or wrong, but I too have memories "of the life I've not lived." It's good you've had such good friends in poets.
2013-03-08


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
Memories of promised journeys.... what wonderful stuff! To still hold close all those dreams is a wondrous thing. My mother's words call out to me "be careful what you dream for!" I think her fear was that in dreaming too small you actually can have them come true and then they are nothing.

A dream, to be truly monumental must be so large that it never comes to fruition. But in constantly being there it remains a bright, joyous beacon drawing us further and further until the moment we encounter our death.

I hope that as in your poem, I can say on my deathbed "Oh vivid memories of the life I've not lived"

My friend this is an awe inspiring piece.


Joe
2013-03-07