Forgotten Seasons

Something made me think of this poem today so I thought I would share.

I wrote this last year for a Poetry Challenge, based on my memories of this moment of my life and my analysis of ‘Yesterday’ by the fabulous W.S Merwin, affectionately written in this style of his… so simply worded, so very confusing!

I have been kind… if you look carefully, you will see I have given a clear clue.


Forgotten Seasons

Kaylee he said
Ali he said
Yes it’s me, Ali I said
I’ve never seen you before!

Kissing my cheek he proceeded
by giving me a gentle squeeze
He doesn’t understand he said
this didn’t comfort me
I felt an unnatural chill in the room
creeping up my bare legs

He’s just a little confused he said
he’s been gone a long time and…
He just thinks I’m stupid he said
where did you go?
he doesn’t I said defensively
he loves you

I was three
the sterile scent of the hospital
filled my senses, numbing me
I could still hear the rickety-rack
trees and paddocks whizzing by
as the train shuttled along it’s rails
I could still feel the dip my stomach took
as the airplane sped down the runway

I had peered out the window
sitting on my feet
feeling much smaller
than my three years
watching mountains like little lego blocks
wondering somewhat in awe of what awaited
He reached for my hand
it startled me
I shuffled out of reach

Don’t be scared he said
come close so I can see your pretty face
Go, it’s OK he said
I toe over toed a little closer
I could smell death
turning to him, dark velvet eyes
pleading to leave
he nudged me forward with his gaze

Cold worn hands grabbed my cheeks
a lifetime of regrets slipping over my skin
crying I ran out into the garden
and sat watching bumble bees
pollinate bouquets of colour
I didn’t go back

My father said, it wasn’t my fault
it was his fault
He died the next day

(c) 2010 A Hannan



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9 thoughts on “Forgotten Seasons

  1. There is a pyre burning outside. The intensity of its glow reaches up to the clouds of night. While it burns, pour not your water of wrath and anger to put it out, but rather cast in all your rotten and forgotten wood of memory, even though it may hurt and cast a blade against your heart. If needs be, jump into it yourself. In that, no one can help you. The strength and power have to come from within. In the smoke covering you, you will hear laughter, and you will weep. But the laughter and the tears will wash you and cleanse you as the first rains of autumn wash the dust off the green leaves, making fresh the earth. The roots of the tree that you are will shake, its withered leaves will fall away, and its soft and putrid branches will break. New leaves, new branches, and roots striking deeper, and deeper… And, most of all, new flowers and new fruits to glisten in the face of sun, to send their delicate scent to lure bird, bee, and butterfly. I can already hear the song of the birds nesting amid your branches, read the sweet words that lovers carve into your limbs. That is the legacy of conquered pain. And it is beautiful. For life heals, and life smiles again and again.

    In the morning, you will open your hands, and from amid the ashes filling your palms moths and butterflies will emerge. Shaking the ashen dust off their wings, they will flutter in the garden nearby under the soft rays of a new morn.

    Water shall flow from the palms of your hands. And you, the water drinker, shall pour of that water for those who are thirsty to drink, and for those who are unclean to wash and be whole again.

    Of your water I have drank and I have washed myself time and again. Thank you.

      • I never read those and I had thought that I’ve read ‘all’ of Gibran. Ever saw how he painted her?

        Through your eyes I gaze, a world transfigured, divine… Light of my eyes…

      • K. Gibran

        I wont post it here, now… but yes…

        “You are like my hands and my eyes – as truly here as I, as these trees and rocks and sky and the sound of the river and the three naked mountains in the meeting of those feet we are.”

  2. “The professors in the academy say, “Do not make the model more beautiful than she is,” and my soul whispers,
    “O if you could only paint the model as beautiful as she really is.””

    You have brought me to tears…

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