Mr. Cogito and Certain Mechanisms of Memory

I

Suddenly it seems there is nothing more fragile than a landscape
One motion of the eyelid annihilates a mountain range buries the Alps
A head turned away dries up the ocean of memory an ocean transformed into a lump of salt
An abandoned forest is as hard to remember as a hotel room
Only the landscape of childhood only that landscape
we carry always in the depths of all memories
its colors are muted a drawing concave as a stamp
an intense smell of roots and unexpected glimmerings shaded by an eyelash

II

The landscape of childhood overgrown with reeds
the landscape of youth passed by at a gallop
Through the cracks of distraction between parted legs the pages of an open newspaper
through a windowpane through a breath we see the landscape of maturity
All of this should fall apart someday
turn black like old decorations
fall silent like murmuring choirs
marring the pure aria of our existence

III

What happens is quite the reverse no doubt against our will
landscapes return invading our memory
repeating themselves sleeplessly whole chains of them vast herds
twilight in the orchard crooked apple trees a steep slope or a house with green shutters
and a black tar-paper roof (one window open)—the sun on a yellow wall
covered in grapevines the orchard the wall of the house a boat at the water’s edge—
blue tracks running out of the forest—what flute leads them out from our memory
who will cut the celluloid reel

IV

It is not language at all it’s wrong to draw out symbols
this is the brutal victory of a background
alien to our existence
a river took the legs a branch struck out the head
where the shoulder lay there is now a line of hills
in the place of the heart a foreign city dry as an etching

V

Conclusion

If it is mildew growing if the bacteria of images
multiply so fast as if we were their nourishment
and nothing more the lesson must be
write your name on tree bark
put your faith in wise stones
imprint your hand on the air and water
if that moment comes
don’t clutch at the curtain
but disappear into the folds
—unreconciled to be sure

This is drawn from “Reconstruction of the Poet.”