Forgetfulness
by Billy Collins
The name of the
author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the
heartbreaking conclusion, the entire
novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the
memories you used to
harbor
decided to
retire to the southern
hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing
village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine
Muses goodbye
and watched the
quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you
memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the
address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not
poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some
obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark
mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to
oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a
bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous
battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have
drifted
out of a love
poem that you used to know by heart.
Thanks for the reference, npydyuan--I'll check it out.
Reminds me of the story (I can't remember which one) in which Spider Robinson points out that forgetfulness is also an anodyne.
I think it may have been "Melancholy Elephants."
Thanks, y'all.
Neato keen!
mmm...