Let It Remain

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Let It Remain

Comfort of name,
of pleasure

freshened in
repetition, unformed

pears falling, and
the mockingbird’s

inability
to complete

another’s song.
I will take no

moment
from this day

but let it remain
here in the knowing,

in the tyranny
of the absolute

and its enforced
rhythm desiring

both flight and
maturation,

the ecstasy
of fruit grown full.

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41 thoughts on “Let It Remain”

  6. I am intrigued by the tension in this beautiful poem! The narrator’s apparent comfort with the ideal of “fulfillment” is so convincing, it makes me wonder about your hints of criticism of that “tyranny of the absolute” trumping the (incomplete) place of “here in the knowing” (where, it seems, we either don’t know how to be, or shouldn’t bother *remaining*). Do I rightly detect a twinge of resentment toward the “enforced” desire in us (or in nature?) to strive toward maturation/perfection, because it means we’re missing something even more miraculous, or fundamental along the way? This is such a compelling concept (which, if I haven’t misunderstood, I believe is lost on many, and therein lies the greatest frustration for the poet…). I’d love it if you’d be willing to shed a bit of light on your impetus for this amazing piece! Don’t leave me dangling like an unripe pear! 😉

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    • I think you’ve hit the nail on the head – there’s a bit of discomfort, if not resentment, in the awareness of the dichotomy of unknowns and the absolute, of the unformed and the ripe. The poem began initially as a simple observation of the pear tree in my back yard, but grew, over the years, into something else, as these things do. 🙂

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    • I feel you’re speaking to something I sensed in reading the poem too. I’ll describe it as balancing appreciation for the miracle of the moment and anticipating/enjoying Creativity’s maturation. A challenge in our high-tech, outcome-based world. Hence the loveliness to me of this poem and pear trees.

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  7. “the ecstasy/of fruit grown full.” Ah, but whose ecstasy? The rhythms, but whose rhythms? Very philosophical and existential, as ever, Bob. Certainly, we have seen pears, tasted them, held them, smelled them, but we cannot know how to form a toughish flesh, when to ripen, when to fall, where to add that bit of moisture, where to repel it. Not lost on this narrator, I’m sure, is the pun of pear-pair-pare. The poem is sensual and beautiful, full of regrets and longing and just lovely, title to end. I would say I’m amazed, but I’ve come to expect that reading your work.

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    • On the one hand, I loved the tree (lovely white blossoms in early spring), but it was messy and drew wasps more than bees, and its fruit wasn’t all that tasty. In the end it became diseased and we had to cut it down. Regrets and longing: yes!

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