Long Forgotten
Living on the built up edge
of historic Epping Forest,
hacked down to size for Metrolanders,
I tread where mighty oaks once stood,
where animals followed ancient trails,
commoners respected trees,
cut only branches for firewood,
kept livestock with freedom to roam.
There’s a Hunting Lodge,
a listed building, visitors can
ogle its Tudor timber frame,
think of Henry and Elizabeth,
the pleasure they took from
chasing deer, killing them
for relaxation, respite from
the toil of burning and beheading,
their victims no longer mourned.
The depressed man who scaled
a tall chimney in Carlisle,
a listed building, and died
in pain last week hanging
upside down from the ladder,
what value does his life have
a tall chimney in Carlisle,
a listed building, and died
in pain last week hanging
upside down from the ladder,
what value does his life have
when those who mourn him
forget to mourn him?
There are incised names
on splendid memorials
and bewreathed cenotaphs,
are these Glorious Dead
being mourned if we only
bow our heads in silence?
It’s the least we can do
for the long forgotten,
or the most, you say.
.
or the most, you say.
.
© Nemo 2023
Views: 765
A deep and philosophical piece, Gerald. I like the way your poem transitions smoothly from the once respected Epping Forest’s environs to a listed building on its grounds – which elicits satirical remarks about the Tudors – and a listed building in Carlisle where a fatal incident occurred. That death raises the question of how much a life is valued if the mourning is only transitory or just acknowledged by a brief silence like the one shown for the ‘Glorious Dead’ whose names are carved in memorials and cenotaphs. How much is adequate is open to debate. As ever an… Read more »
Luigi, your finely penned review is more eloquent than my clumsily constructed poem. Many thanks.
Regards, Gerald.
This poem really had me thinking about all you were saying. I don’t know each individual creature lost yet I can still mourn their loss. Each acre stolen for building although lost for now, feels to me like the land is in waiting after all it is still there, its story will continue, when the buildings fall, the land will breath again. But I do wonder about the value of a life forgotten by those who once mourned, is that life now of no value, does that make the existence of that person pointless. Apologies, this seems a rather inadequate… Read more »
Thanks, Sue. I’m still thinking about the issues raised by my poem and your response has got me questioning what I have written. I think it is the fate of all human beings to disappear into oblivion, some sooner than others, when they are no longer mourned and are forgotten. It a question about the meaning of our lives to which i don’t have answer. Perhaps if a life has to have value it has to have reproduced itself and/or improved the lives of others. Gerald.
I’m adding a little more to what I wrote yesterday. I think the value of true mourning is that it maintains the worth or value of the thing, tree, plant, animal, or person as long as it lasts. When that mourning wears off, the beginning of forgetting sets in till eventually the thing, tree, plant, animal, or person might not have existed. And yet we know they existed but we don’t know why. We might think they have their place in the scheme of things, in the universe, even. It then brings us to ask why is there a universe?… Read more »
Thanks, Trevor. The way you and Luigi describe my poem makes out it’s better than it is. It’s piece born out of not having anything imagery-fresh to say. I need to ingest some different source material. I’m being surprisingly impressed by some writers on Writers Cafe. There’s a few American poets on there with some refreshingly novel techniques. And some rubbish too. All for now. I’ll keep trying.
Best, Gerald.