Irretrievable
How we grieve the simplest
truths: we are
the scatterings,
relics of
the mind’s
erosions,
less than the sum
of our bodies. I cannot see
the word
but it smokes like
the color green
burning, but not of
flame, and once
the knife enters
you must avoid
its secretion
and peel the flesh
to reveal
what hides within:
the stem’s
purchase, pith,
seeds,
the irretrievable
shape
of a word
my lips cannot
form.
***
“Irretrievable” first appeared in a slightly different form in Vayavya, in December 2013.
O at the Edges 
Oh I love this! “the irretrievable shape of a word my lips cannot form.”
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Thanks, Meg. Words often elude me.
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No, I don’t believe you. 🙂
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Ha!
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I love ‘the irretrivable shape of a word my lips can not form’.
Part of the poem reminded me of another one of yours about what an orange feels on being cut (i think it was an orange?). Could you share a link to that please?
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I think you’re referring to this one: http://www.vayavya.in/robert-okaji.html
And thank you.
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Ah yes! I knew I’d seen it before. Clearly it was the orange and the knife that stood out for me. That is 2 poems of yours in recent days that I have realised were floating in my head for some time. I hope you don’t think I’m some kind of creepy poem stalker haha.
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The greatest compliment! Please continue stalking.
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ok! 🙂
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Love the colours in this. The imagery is amazing. Thank you for sharing!
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You’re very kind, Sarah. Thank you.
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I would say “How we grieve the simplest truth: we are…” …. 禅 ….
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Hmm. I like that.
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Pingback: Reblog: Irretrievable — O at the Edges | Sarah Jayne Nantais
Great piece, Robert.
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Thanks, Robert. Much appreciated.
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We definitely share a wave-length, Sir Robert. Your poems often seem resonant of my own, so much so, that if I told you every time I noticed a phrase, a thread, a philosophical musing in one of your pieces that I had just formulated or revised within a week of your posts, I’m sure you’d be creeped out. Lol!
But I am now feeling inspired to post the one in particular that “Irretrievable” brings to mind. Mine is also about that *something* in our nature — purportedly something we’ve either willingly given up, or simply lost by default — which dictates that the words must elude us, and stirs in us a sort of nostalgic grief. It is called, “Unvoiced.”
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Isn’t it curious (and wonderful) how these resonances travel? I’ve noticed the same sort of common thread with other poets from time to time. Something in the collective psyche?
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Yes, the deep, soul-building work of poets is our way of re-fashioning a voice for the collective psyche that was rendered mute when humans made their untethered foray into modernity. I’ll never understand where we thought we were going in the first place, but I do know an awful lot about being lost, and a thing or two about starting to find my way again. I’m so very heartened whenever we poets find each other… 😊
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As am I!
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Pingback: Unvoiced | slharperpoetry
Mysterious, beautiful, this poem was a pleasure to read. You’re a very talented writer 🙂
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You’re very kind. Thank you.
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You’re very welcome, I mean every word 🙂
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Love everything about this one, very moving. Bravo!
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Thanks, Elizabeth. I’m so pleased it moved you.
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You had me at ‘How’
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Ha! Thank you very much.
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