[R. Nemo Hill]

.
.
.
Self-Portrait From Memory

......................(Pobral, Portugal—1986)

1.
Was there wind? Perhaps. Perhaps what teased
my skin, my scalp, was just the silent clamor
of tén-tímes-tén-thóusand stars.

Or those brutal brass crescendos of Berlioz
whose onslaught set my walkman’s plastic headphones
buzzing through my naked nerves and bloodstream.

Perhaps it was the space that lies between them:
between Empty Open Clamor and Funereal Crescendo.
Perhaps as one rushed in to fill the other

a wind arose to stir what can’t be moved
by air. Perhaps my memory is no more
than the roaring of a shell pressed to my ear.


2.
I know the bench on which I sat was stone,
old stone—the same stone used to build my rented home,
the hamlet’s oldest, unheated, only fit for tourists—

tourists wretched by design—for winter,
though mild here on the coast, was fast approaching,
the vineyards already reeking of ripened grape.

I know I was dead-set on an epiphany
when I planted myself on that cóld bóne thróne
with my tumult of music no one else could hear.

But there was no one else. —Just those deafened stars
and those deafening horns, and that something
that whooshed between—wind-polishing memory.


3.
I often see myself there, onstage, star-framed,
earnestly questioning death, wallowing in
infinity, adorable youth, almost out of breath.

Sometimes the buzzing speaker’s undertone
grew tiresome, distracting, and I removed the song
and sat, dethroned, with stars, in awful silence.

Or I’d fast forward to my favorite part
and emerging from its din, I’d let the Requiem
fade inside me, self-consumed. For night

declined to hold such echoes. It bid them catch
what might and then might-not-have-been the windblown
thread on which, grown boy, I’m strung by memory.
.
.
.



comma added in Part 2, L1

[Roger Slater]

I've read this three times without the slightest desire to change a word. Very fine poem.

[Paula Fernandez]

Oh yes. This is really very beautiful. And, while a self-portrait with incredible intimate detail, also so so universal. Didn't we all sit on such a rock and see such stars and have such thoughts? I loved it.

[Rick Mullin]

I concur. But I think that you should de-italicize "Was". The simple question is effective enough going into the poem.

[Julie Steiner]

Fantastique!

I did wonder if some sort of punctuation belongs between the first and second lines of 2. And I noticed occasional extra beats, but they didn't bother me.

[Glenn Wright]

Hi, Nemo—

Lovely work. My favorite lines are “. . .Perhaps my memory is no more/ than the roaring of a shell pressed to my ear.” I think the /r/ alliteration makes it resonant and memorable.

[Christine P'legion]

Originally Posted by Julie Steiner

I did wonder if some sort of punctuation belongs between the first and second lines of 2.

I'll echo Julie here; that line wants a comma.

I'm not sure why there are sometimes accent marks over some of your vowels:

tén-tímes-tén-thóusand

cóld bóne thróne

Is this a poetic conceit of some sort that I'm not catching? Or just a computer oddity?

This is a lovely poem. I especially love the second stanza, the idea of being "dead-set on an epiphany" and the epiphany refusing to come; I imagine we've all been there! Though the physical place of your particular disappointment is at least beautiful enough (perhaps) to make up for the disappointment.

[Glenn Wright]

I thought perhaps the stress marks, heavy alliteration, and hyphenated adjectives like “star-framed” were intended as homage to Gerard Manley Hopkins. This poem reminds me of his style.

[R. Nemo Hill]

Roger, that might be a first from you.
I am most grateful.

Paula, yes, though it is a vividly personal memory for me, it has a universally youthful tone to it.

Rick, I feel strongly that I need the italics there.

Julie (and Christine), the missing comma was just an oversight. I could have sworn it was there, ha!
I shall place it.

Glen, I often alliterate unconsciously, as I did there.

Christine & Glen, I've been known to string together stressed words and get taken to task for metrical disruption, breaking the rules. In this case I wanted those relentless stresses to feel uncontestably deliberate. I added the accents, thinking "oh, I'll probably take them out again later" but once they were in place I loved their domineering stage direction. It wasn't a direct reference to Hopkins: though I'm aware of his use of them, I have hardly read any Hopkins and so he is not really an influence on my work. They just felt right to me.

Christine, I don't think that the disappointment predominates here, I feel it's merely an aside to a deeper more amorphous revelation. The epiphany is there, although not the intentional one I'd invited. That thwarted expectation is crucial part of the ultimate awe.

Thanks for the comments,
Nemo

[John Riley]

A powerful poem, Nemo. Thanks for posting it here.