Trying to find Borges 30.4.2018 – NaPoWriMo

I’m not at all familiar with Borges but I gave it a go on a few things that came to me. But, as always, I stand to be corrected. He doesn’t seem to go by the maxim, “All poets are Cretans.” I don’t either but I wear the hat when it fits. Having had a repeat dream last night which was weird this was what I started with. Early in the evening, I dreamed my dead brother and his wife were having a big sale to get rid of pure rubbish. I woke, went back to sleep and then dreamed a similar dream. The basics were the same but the background and people totally different.

 

The Decider

“But broken images of nights treasure”

 

Take your time, the broken images may come together again.

But it is unlikely they will be the same.

Each night puts a new face on what the broken image might be.

You are always asking questions.

You are always asking us to ask questions.

You never say this history might be personal.

You also wrote, “The door does the choosing, not the man.”

Do we get to choose which images of nights’ treasure are the broken pieces, especially if we have already fitted them back together again?

I believe that’s all been decided a long time ago.

I’m trying to keep up with the categorical and the uncategorical.

I tried to keep to what seemed a rule: one thought, one line.

 

Benita Kape © 30.4.2018

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And for our final (optional) prompt, I’d like you to take your cue from Borges, and write a poem that engages with a strange and fascinating fact. It could be an odd piece of history, an unusual bit of art trivia, or something just plain weird. While I cannot vouch for the actual accuracy of any of the facts presented at the links above (or any other facts you might use as inspiration!), I can tell you that there are definitely some poetic ideas here, just waiting for someone to use them.

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Oh, My Little One – GloPoWriMo – Day Three – Today’s prompt: Elegy

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Oh, My Little One

to: Andrew

Oh, my little one,

you lived your few days

in an incubator, the better

to assist your survival.

We held you, but oh,

so seldom. Mostly I sat

at your side and watched

your incredible struggle;

hands grasping the tubes,

tugging and pulling at those

wretched contraptions, while

secretly I cheered you on.

.

That everlasting pause,

as the vicar,

elderly and perplexed studied

the tiny opening through which

he would drop the tiniest dribble

of blessed water to your forehead:

and signed the cross in the thin air

above you. All was rushed, yet all

was still as still. The next morning

they flew you to the big city, the

amazing hospital of modern miracles:

your little body opened but nothing

could be done. Where should be

a left ventricle of your heart, you

had little, valves awry. Today the

miracles increase; but not then.

.

This year it will be fifty since you

were born and died within a few days.

There are times, my son when it feels

like yesterday. And we are wont to say

the dead look down on us. Oh, my

little one, are you there?

Benita H. Kape © 3.4.2017

This took place in New Zealand. A few days previous the first ever heart replacement operation had taken place in South Africa. My husband and I were saying to each other ‘If only we had a spare heart to give’. It was forty years before I would learn that the left ventricle had never fully developed though I did know of valve malfunction at the time. Sometimes they thought that was sufficient information.

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NaPoWriMo 2015 – Day 14 – A conversation with another – Fostered Child

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Fostered Child

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Come my dear, share with me your news.

The old ones, the young ones.

All of it, all of it. What have you for your muse?

.

Some dear mother are close;

Some are far, further than you ever could imagine.

Much of what I will tell you will juxtapose

with romantic recall of which you were fond.

.

Come, you must not keep me in suspense

my bones have been aching to know the things afoot.

Open for me a new chapter, come commence.

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How shall I approach such a delicate matter?

What resources the modern world

reveals to the seekers with you at the centre.

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The threads, the answers to so many questions,

With ever more and more …and

the sweet mother you never knew … never knew

never knew. Never knew – any of this.

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Because dear muse, words fail me.

Be comforted. Sleep well.

Benita H. Kape © 15.4.2015

 My first version of the poem gave some answers. I don’t think that is always what poetry should do. The poetry gods are with me today. I had an appointment. The car wouldn’t start. I adjusted my appointment time, got the poem I wanted (thank you dear muse) and now the car has started when tried again. Whollla. The picture is of my very recently discovered grandmother. My mother was her first child, not pictured here.

 

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