The Book of Forgetting
July 3, 2012
Those chimes—
I remember wind, but this music is new
***
Your face—hello, old friend.
That name I knew you by?
***
How I spend my days?
sparrow, sparrow—and now the squirrel, leaping
***
I open my mouth—saxophone elbows sousaphone,
the closet of musical instruments a jumble
***
Such a short distance to walk.
Falling? I never fall.
***
Immense space beyond quiet—
was this what the Buddha knew?
***
What I did yesterday—
a blank page
Robin Chapman’s poems have appeared recently in Alaska Quarterly Review, Prairie Schooner, Wilderness, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. She is author of seven books of poetry, most recently Abundance and the eelgrass meadow.
Categories: Fragments
Robin Chapman
qarrtsiluni 
Lovely.
Enjoyed this, as well as identified with it.
A delight! Makes me think of Neruda’s Book of Questions. That sense of wonder and yearning is here.
This is lovely – actually makes me feel that forgetting may lead to enlightenment!
How easy to forget. How hard to remember. The coming of the blank page worries me. Not for me, but for those who love me and will labor to watch over me.
Robin,
The mouth as a closet of musical instruments — very nice — I will remember this.
Thanks,
–Peter
Wonderful jumble of beautiful thoughts–each complete in a fragmentary way. Mary
Oh yes, beautiful. Makes me hear those chimes.