There is no contradiction more stark than time, which points its arrow along a single axis, bearing us, helpless, into the future while its timelines are mired with multitudes, contradictions, fateful encounters and chance happenings that abandon axes all together, operating in the vast expanse between coherence and truth.
How can I explain time without explaining its in-explicability? Time, in all its linearity, constantly rewrites itself, for in each moment, we overwrite the truths of the past with the truths of the present, re-crafting the world in our memory into something inexplicably new.
Memory knows nothing of the past. It is an invention of the present, a clever liar, a wraith passing by our window in the dead of night, bringing beautiful falsehoods disguised in the veil of truth, truths that smile at us with familiar faces we have never seen before.
We look backward to look forward, our necks bending to the past, straining against the moment, our eyes inventing the images that we will share with our children when we have finally shaped them into truths.
At DVerse, the prompt today is to write a Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title, that includes today’s prompt word, “wound” in the body of the poem. We can use the word “wound” or a form of the word – not a synonym for the word.
that glow green-radiant in unkempt spring breezes and rustle across the un-tuned strings of my weary heart in the most sweet-melancholic melody
Like the ghost of a memory, that melody stirs something somewhere in the deep recesses amid the vines, the phantom limbs of the breeze hugging my heart in the wailing and whistling vocals of my ancestors.
The vines wrap around my heart tightly against the dusk and the promise of cold, their old and reborn roots anchoring me as the blue-frost edges of sunset take hold.
Blanketed by ghosts and memories, my heart aches as I recall amid the piercing notes of my Blue Tuesday heart-string blues how many vines I tore up, expecting to remain rooted.
Dusk like a blanket stretched over the sky making heavy the world’s eyes and drawing the lighthouse keeper from the comfort of his bed.
Though it was said that he never slept, in truth, the lighthouse keeper laid in darkness through sunshine days so that he was accustomed at all times to the night and its horrors.
If you ever chanced upon him by day he might say what he said to me on that otherwise unremarkable midsummer day:
“My eyes can see beyond the horizon in those first minutes of the night – In the air I can smell danger and see ships devoured by the rocks.
I can feel the souls of sailors scattered all along this shore.
The more I see of the night the more I fear. Nowhere is how little we truly are more clear. Let it be said that fear was my first friend here and she shall be my last. She will have my back to my dying day.”
He spoke no more and was gone and though I saw him no more, I have heard it said that though his light was never extinguished and no ship perished on his shores he died young with grey hair and skin-spots and the same weary eyes I saw all those years before because that fear and the ghosts only he could see slowly consumed his life out in that lonely lighthouse.
On DVerse today, the challenge is to write a poem in the voice of a fictional character. It can be any character you like, and you can introduce it in your own voice if you choose (à la Coleridge, though I certainly wouldn’t insist on this) but the main body of the poem must be in the voice of your character.