From everything a little remained.
From my fear. From your disgust.
From stifled cries. From the rose
a little remained.
A little remained of light
caught inside the hat.
In the eyes of the pimp
a little remained of tenderness,
very little.
A little remained of the dust
that covered your white shoes.
Of your clothes a little remained,
a few velvet rags, very
very few.
From everything a little remained.
From the bombed-out bridge,
from the two blades of grass,
from the empty pack
of cigarettes a little remained.
So from everything a little remains.
A little remains of your chin
in the chin of your daughter.
A little remained of your
blunt silence, a little
in the angry wall,
in the mute rising leaves.
A little remained from everything
in porcelain saucers,
in the broken dragon, in the white flowers,
in the creases of your brow,
in the portrait.
Since from everything a little remains,
why won't a little
of me remain? In the train
travelling north, in the ship,
in newspaper ads,
why not a little of me in London,
a little of me somewhere?
In a consonant?
In a well?
A little remains dangling
in the mouths of rivers,
just a little, and the fish
don't avoid it, which is very unusual.
From everything a little remains.
Not much: this absurd drop
dripping from the faucet,
half salt and half alcohol,
this frog leg jumping,
this watch crystal
broken into a thousand wishes,
this swan's neck,
this childhood secret...
From everything a little remained:
from me; from you; from Abelard.
Hair on my sleeve,
from everything a little remained;
wind in my ears,
burbing, rumbling
from an upset stomach,
and small artifacts:
bell jar, honeycomb, revolver
cartridge, aspirin tablet.
From everything a little remained.
And from everything a little remains.
Oh, open the bottles of lotion
and smoother
the cruel, unbearable odor of memory.
Still, horribly, from everything a little remains,
under the rhythmic waves
under the clouds and the wind
under the bridges and under the tunnels
under the flames and under the sarcasm
under the phlegm and under the vomit
under the cry from the dungeon, the guy they forgot
under the spectacle and under the scarlet death
under the libraries, asylums, victorious churches
under yourself and under your feet already hard
under the ties of family, the ties of class,
from everything a little always remains.
Sometimes a button. Sometimes a rat.
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Comments
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This is one of the best pieces I have read on this site...it certainly does make us aware of what we want to remain of our presence here on this planet...let's hope what remains will be good remains...
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This is a poem as big or great as the reader's imagination or understanding; the author leaves no doubt of the reach, it is to all things but the messages are broken into ideas too: good and bad things, happy and sad things; big,useful and inportant things useless perhaps only small or sentimantal things all leave a trace of themselves in the world as memories as physical remnants...physical things and abstract things...all..and then the questions what of us? what of the unworthy things that seem to persist beyond the worthy things?... I think this is a great poem, and when i've read it again i think i will have learned or understood a few more residues...PK
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I can only apply my own thoughts here. No idea what the author may have actually intended.
Everything leaves some residue, some reminder, something that changed or effected something else. Some slight thing that makes up who we are...experience.
And so it's not just good things, but horrible ones too.
I do get the feeling that it is somehow bigger than that however, possibly stretching out to humanity, and that last part (which I really like) with its headlong, heedless rush toward the rat...it's almost like self-destruction...but a clarity reached before he does....
or maybe not.
But it's an exceptional poem, from a readers standpoint anyway.
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I really like this poem, and how it talks about of our personal residues left in some many things. Objects left behind but also collected feelings, memories of us 'boxed' in different packages. Something of everything...yes, an excellent poem!
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