Memory and Desire

A castaway upon the shore

muses by the ocean's door:

"A flowing Memory has got

a time to ripen and to rot,

and all that Memory directs

is all that Memory connects.

You meet the past, a ghostly specter,

the phantom's taught you what you are.

But Memory, if you'd direct her

would burst into a shining star.

To love the stories that you've told

is to already have grown old.

To love the stories that you'll tell

is a step towards living well.

To swim, oh how to swim, to dive

deep down the flow of Time;

what else does it mean to rhyme?

To sharpen Time, the swerving knife,

and clasp it to the throat of Life;

what else does it mean to thrive?

A past is born each moment new,

so many selves for every face,

so many narratives to trace,

so very many things to do.

But how to live this moment now

without a quiver in the brow?

But how to separate invention?

And how to calculate intention?

But will I go projecting ever,

and pat my back and call me clever?

Or will I live forever new

and call myself forever true?"

Thus he spoke, the clever liar,

to Memory and dark Desire.