Friday, May 9, 2008

The Time Around Scars

(A Michael Ondaatje poem:)


A girl whom I've not spoken to

or shared coffee with for several years

writes of an old scar.


On her wrist it sleeps, smooth and white,


the size of a leech.


I gave it to her


brandishing a new Italian penknife.


Look, I said turning,


and blood spat onto her shirt.




My wife has scars like spread raindrops


on knees and ankles,


she talks of broken greenhouse panes


and yet, apart from imagining red feet,


(a nymph out of Chagall)


I bring little to that scene.


We remember the time around scars,


they freeze irrelevant emotions


and divide us from present friends.


I remember this girl's face,


the widening rise of surprise.



And would she

moving with lover or husband


conceal or flaunt it,


or keep it at her wrist


a mysterious watch.


And this scar I then remember


is a medallion of no emotion.



I would meet you now

and I would wish this scar


to have been given with


all the love


that never occurred between us.





(One of my favorite poems in high school)

2 comments:

FRANCISCO PINZĂ“N BEDOYA said...

Oh My...
English isn't my language but this poem likes me

It's very attractive your blog

Congratulations!!!!!

Leah said...

Thank you! I'm glad you connected with the poem :D