They may remember
a too-long year
365 days
nineteen more
twelve more hours
until noon dawn
of too-long sought year
ours
drawn two weeks
too weak
to strength
Kristallnacht to Schönertag
mourning through morning
until sun of everyone
rose again
at noon.
Little by Slowly
November, 2016
I inch upward
little by slowly
from this ledge
near bottom
in this abyss
where earth gave way beneath me--
dropping further than I thought my land could drop.
see a climb that will outlive me,
take notice in the dim
of varied walls and sides surrounding:
good sides,
bad sides,
sides with sheared and slippery walls,
sides where I could sculpt and garden,
sides where (little by slowly)
others climb.
They rise from below me.
They lead the way--way above me.
They pause alone to sculpt and
garden.
I shall climb to those nearby:
to those who will outlive abyss,
to those who will pull and push my old bones,
to those who need my stubbornness,
and to those who will feast from my memory
of what was earth above
before collapse.
November, 2020
Despite shrinking time and diminished strength,
I have returned
from the abyss where earth gave way beneath me--
from where I looked up
to a climb I expected to outlive me.
There were shadows and voices
rising from below,
clinging above.
Sunken-but-strong
they would soothe then scold,
come then go,
pull then push.
They would ask then remind
of my memory
of what was earth before collapse.
Little by slowly,
(so little so slowly)
(remote then sudden)
at brink
onto edge
I stand to see
beyond abyss
the great expanse
where
(both changed)
(both enhanced)
reality and memory now dance.
Quandary,
if obvious and necessary,
is
not quandary but matter of fact.
Ponder:
how
breeze be more vast than its meadow,
yet
meadow be much more than its wind;
how
river be greater than valley,
and
valley greater than water within;
how
mystery multiplies within and around us
if
in science we explore each nook and space.
And
roommate, classmate, teammate, friend:
how
our embrace holds far more than meaning,
yet
meaning holds all we embrace.
I
plan to scribble this week:
both a picture and a poem.
Read
this week:
something neglected
and sitting around.
Study
this week:
language and science,
new and forgotten.
I
plan:
to prune and weed—a little,
coddle a fresh egg and some
older scribbles,
cobble a little table,
do a little healthful
exercise.
This week will likely:
surprise me
at
unplanned time
with something and someone new,
take me over
sad-but-noble miles
to new ashes of old friend.
Give
me a moment or two
for these thoughts and thoughts of you.
At
a loss for words it remains our privilege to use them.
To both
describe good fortune and mourn good friends
To remember that a
rainbow
needs both warm sun on our back
and weeping cloud
over head.
We
were in so many ways green,
strangers, somewhat strange,
thrown—by
good choice—together.
To
survive and to thrive.
800—give and take.
800
individuals.
We
picked up a longer than long long rope,
pulled
together—and won.
pulled together—as one.
Onto
this green place from disparate places.
We spoke surprisingly
different dialects
of what we thought was the “King's
English”.
We shared personal stories as we shared a new
life.
Did I ever tell you about the postal clerk,
a
nameless hero.
Seven blocks from my home,
seven minutes after
closing,
he heard the panic in my phone call,
took a nickle
from his pocket,
found my envelope,
gave it the stamp and
postmark
that put me here with you sixty years ago—
puts me
here with you today.
Did I ever thank you
for your
having the flu during fall final exams
and then a beer on our
train to Chicago?
Because of you,
an angry-attractive stranger
attacked me in the aisle:
“I want you to move your drunken
friend off my seat!”
A few years later that stranger became my
wife.
And which of you
did we roust out of bed on a
snowy morning,
because the bond we had formed in our
classroom
made us less than whole without you?
At a
loss for words it remains our privilege to use them.
By our shared
choice and individual fates
We are here
to remind
ourselves
and to tell the world:
Remember us as 800—give
and take.
Fort Collins © 2025 :: Bob Komives :: Given and Taken :: 2505
Personal Note: I had the honor to present this at the Memorial Service of the 60th Reunion of the class of 1965 of Dartmouth College, in Rollins Chapel, on June 18th, 2025. "Given and Taken" weaves my thoughts and feelings of that day with three poems I had written earlier: "Quandary ... "; "Scribbles ..."; "Inspired ...".
Despite known risk of re-affection
'twas pleasant to be pleasant
…
to feel pleasantable
to feel pleasanted
Pleasantable
Bob Komives
Fort Collins (c) 2025 :: 2504
