Remembrance: a poem
Philos 18
REMEMBRANCE
by Qutbuddin Loren Ruh
I was reading the Italian poet
Pier Paolo Pasolini
his writings of the `tradition’
revolutionary poetic tradition
that it’s unknown, misunderstood, or forgotten
by the revolutionary currents that are
just noises in the streets, repetitiously.
They’ve always been there, noises
in the streets, the tradition reports
but the fight goes on without remembrance
without remembrance even of the victories.
Thinking: “What of those who have gone before?
Each fought `the revolution’
in their manner, in their clamor.
Some won. A `new wave consciousness’
set up a new `new government’
were corrupted by the `new power.’
I’m wondering: “Why this repetition?
We trust, thrust ahead, burn our bridges. Die.
Some die. I haven’t, but in my heart
I hear the cries, do a bit of campaigning
my community knows me
knows where of this heart. That’s it.
The `revolution’ is in the rebel’s head, not his heart.
The others, like myself, their hearts on that cross
again. Never, it seems, has a heart led the revolution.
Always it’s some would-be intellectual gone berserk.
Each heart is burned again! At the stake again!
In their zeal, their revolutionary zeal!
Remember: “Burn! Baby! Burn!” I do!
Remember! Remember!
Remember who we are! Remember how often
how easily memory stops at the pain
can’t get beyond the pain
the pain out of which revolution is born.
Forgetting the works of a `King’, and his Mentor.
Forgetting the joys of a breath of Spring
of attaining that icy mountain’s top
forgetting the first touches of love
the joy of nurturing vegetables, animals, children
each of creativity’s new pinnacles
reaching deep inside to remember the source
reaching out for the `manna from Heaven’
the `ishq’ of our beingness
that wellspring of spirit which is love.
I remember some times, some things so beautiful
my breath escapes me. I cry out, I sigh
and I know you’ve done the same. Remembering.
Remember the real revolution is within.
It’s time to go within.
Mankind, men listening, remembering
must go deeper than ever before.
Many of those who have passed have
tried to say this, grew frustrated
flamed out in a zealot’s destiny.
Our mothers know this, have spoken
been hushed, sometimes crushed.
We must learn not to lose our way
like this, forgetting over and over again
over and over and over again, forgetting…
Remember! I beg you…
Remember the beauty in your next breath.
A community can’t remember
unless it’s members remember.
Unless we, you and I, remember to remember
before our emotions rise on the zealot’s tide.
Ride out that moment on the breath’s ebb.
Quiet now! Remember those child’s cries of delight?
It was you and I in our youth.
That cry was not unlike the cry of pain
but in the heights it reaches.
Climb again to the heights.
Breathe in again the joys of life.
Share again the peace
and
Remember! Remember!
08-13-86
Qutbuddin Loren Ruh Smith: I’m 74 years old, born in Tacoma, WA and went to high school in Arcata, CA. I served in the US Army, met my first wife and had our first son in France. I started writing poetry in my first college English class in 1961. I’ve published a book called The Path to The Beloved and I have several books ready to publish. I lived in the Sierras in Grass Valley for 30 years before moving to Albuquerque, NM, last year. My book about fathers and sons called This Child and His Tree will be going to the publishers shortly.
– is a deeply personal issue that everyone decides for himself. Sometimes the price is high, sometimes low. But this is not very important for life. Life is an interesting thing. And the price on Viagra – too.
